Isolation
by Inhoe Publishing
Summary: "You can't stay on Enterprise, kid. I've got to get you to Earth," McCoy said. No. Jim wasn't going back to Earth. There was nothing for him on Earth. There never had been. Nothing good happened on Earth. He wanted to stay. Kirk picks up an unknown virus on the Narada and is quarantined on Earth while McCoy tries frantically to find a cure.
1. Chapter 1

**Sickbay**

McCoy stood next to a small desk, studying a series of monitors in the auxiliary Sickbay, trying to keep up with the flood of orders that required his approval. Thanks to Puri's untimely death, he had been given a battlefield promotion to Chief Medical Officer and was now directing the medical care of the entire ship. It wasn't as if he was new to the role of medical director. He'd run trauma centers before in the civilian world, but he was fresh out of the Academy, hadn't even gotten his regular uniform broken in yet, and he was already overseeing Starfleet's newest disaster.

It was little comfort to know that Starfleet had as much paperwork on patients as did the civilian world. Of course in Georgia, patients weren't trapped in a floating tin can, subject to a laundry list of ailments and fatalities, and certainly they didn't have to worry about the Earth running out of oxygen or gravity, or being sucked out a bulkhead breach.

He shuddered. It had been a long day and a long line of patients that had paraded before him – bloodied, burned and maimed. He'd spent hours in surgery and his staff still wasn't done with post-operative care. Sickbay was almost full to capacity. He'd sent all crewmembers who could walk and didn't need monitoring back their quarters after treatment. He'd have to assign medical staff on follow up over the next few days. He sighed inwardly. _Something else to do._

For now Sickbay was quiet, except for the hum of the monitors and low conversations of the nurses as they checked on their patients who lay recovering in the beds. The crisis was over and they had saved as many lives as they could, although it hadn't been enough. He was just thinking of heading to his own quarters for some much-needed rest when a familiar, yet barely recognizable voice drew his attention.

"Bones?" The voice was hoarse and faint, the single word stretched thin.

Jim Kirk, whom he had smuggled on board the ship and begged to keep a low profile, had been anything but circumspect. From running around the ship flaunting a severe allergic reaction to sabotaging an alien drill and being promoted to acting-captain, the young man had been in the forefront of the action, pushing the crewagainst all logic or reason. He'd ultimately saved Earth from the same fate as Vulcan, saved the _Enterprise _and most likely the whole damn Federation.

But McCoy was still annoyed with him. His friend had been reckless and headstrong, more so than usual, provoking the Vulcan at the risk of his own life and insisting on pursuing a madman against all odds. In the end, Jim had sacrificed the warp core to keep the _Enterprise_ from being pulled into a black hole. McCoy had found himself struggling to keep injured alive as the ship nearly shook apart from the stress. Now the ship was limping home at impulse – weakened and battered.

"How's Pike?"

He scowled at the sound of the guttural voice and turned toward where the man stood. "He's sta—"

He stopped short at the sight of Jim standing – barely on his feet – in the narrow doorway in the same black undershirt he'd put him in twenty-four hours earlier, white as bleached bone. McCoy's trained medical eye saw the perspiration covering the bruised face, the rapid, shallow breathing and the slight tremor that ran through the thin body.

"What the hell," he said. The last time he'd seen Jim had been on the transporter pad. Jim had been supporting a barely conscious Captain Pike. He'd looked exhausted, but otherwise uninjured.

"I think I—"

He barely made it to Jim as the young captain collapsed. A nurse appeared next to him as he gently lowered his friend to the floor. A dead weight, Jim's body was surprisingly light in his arms. "Get me his vitals!" he ground out.

As the nurse focused on the tricorder, he carefully pressed his fingers to Jim's carotid artery, fearing the worst. Jim's pulse was rapid and thready, his skin clammy – signs of shock.

"BP 80/45. Heart rate 110. Respirations 130 and shallow." She paused. "He's hemorrhaging."

_No shit._

The color of Jim's skin, the increased respiration…he made his diagnosis before the nurse spoke.

"Anderson, get over here!" he barked to the orderly, not taking his eyes off Jim who lay unconscious and struggling to breathe. The sound of Jim's wheezing made him wince. His eyes narrowed in on the livid colors of the bruising that ran across Jim's neck. Between the blood loss and throat trauma, hypoxia was a real threat.

"Get him on oxygen. Fifteen liters per minute," McCoy ordered. He pulled back Jim's eyelid with his thumb and quickly checked his pupil response. Sluggish, which could mean concussion…or something worse. There was petechia and that meant Jim had suffered significant damage from being choked. He'd seen these signs in strangulation victims.

Anderson arrived with a stretcher. They had to move fast. McCoy had no idea how long Jim had been bleeding or how extensive his injuries, but when a patient collapsed, especially a patient like Jim, it was a bad sign.

Suddenly he was surrounded by medical personnel, all taking a hand in moving Jim. He gripped Jim's shoulders, taking a position at Jim's head. "On three. One. Two. Three."

They moved as one, lifting the man to the stretcher. Jim's body was boneless and alarmingly unresponsive. The nurse crossed his arms over his middle and held them in place with one hand as the stretcher moved.

"How much O-Negative whole blood do we have?" McCoy asked as they approached an empty diagnostic bed.

"I think we're out."

"Don't **think**," McCoy growled. "I want to know."

"Yes, doctor."

They quickly transferred Jim to the biobed. Immediately the monitors sprang to life and a series of warnings sounded. McCoy scanned the monitor display. Everything he saw indicated hypovolemic shock and class III hemorrhaging. There was bleeding from the spleen and kidney, a fracture of the larynx and hyoid bone, and significant edema of the suproglottic tissue. Minor compared to the internal bleeding, but it was compromising Jim's airway. Lack of oxygen in the blood was the biggest concern.

An oxygen mask was placed over Jim's nose and mouth while two other nurses swiftly cut away the soiled clothing. In seconds he lay naked on the bed, exposing a multitude of bruises across his chest and abdomen.

Christ, McCoy thought, quickly taking in the condition of the body before him. Deep purple and red hematomas covered most of Jim's abdomen and left hip, as well as his neck and throat. They were stark and vivid against the unnatural pallor of his flesh.

"Peripheral perfusion is poor," Chapel said, checking the blood flow in Jim's extremities.

He instructed a nurse to start a urinary catheter and cover Jim's battered body with a warm blanket. The biobed temperature setting was increased to combat hypothermia and shock.

McCoy barely had time to register his friend's condition; his mind was already racing as another alarm sounded. "Give me an arterial line and hang two liters of lactated Ringers."

Christ. There was so much damage. The O2 sat warning had gone from red to yellow, but was still too low. Blood volumes were dangerously low, sending his heart into arrhythmia which was displayed across the monitor. He placed his hands on Jim's abdomen, feeling the rigidness beneath his fingers. The abdominal cavity was filling with blood.

"I want an ABG, Chem 7 and a unit of plasma." He drew the blanket back to prepare to insert the central line. The nurse next to him disinfected the area and handed him the catheter.

"Systolic pressure is falling," Chapel said. She was quickly preparing the plasma.

Jim was losing too much blood, too fast.

McCoy drew on his years of medical training: empathy, not sympathy, don't over identify with your patient, focus on the task at hand. His hands were steady as he carefully threaded the catheter into the subclavian vein. "Push 25 mgs of Prostatin." He had to try to slow Jim's heart rate down.

"Urine output is 20 mL."

Too low. Damn. They had to restore Jim's fluids and get oxygen into his system before his organs began to suffer damage, but none of that would matter if Jim went into cardiac arrest. He was in tachycardia and unstable.

"Where's Tomas?" he asked of the whereabouts of the other surgeon. He needed another set of surgical hands.

"Off duty, Doctor."

"Not anymore. Wake him up and get him in here." He'd just finished inserting the catheter for the central line when another warning alarm sounded. His eyes snapped up to the monitor. "15ccs of Phenabaro, stat!"

Goddamn it, Jim was failing.

* * *

It took an hour to stabilize Jim before they could get him into surgery, an hour of pushing meds and plasma, inserting drainage tubes and trying to keep oxygen and blood flowing to the major organs.

McCoy put a hand to the back of his neck in a vain attempt to ease the ache that had settled in over the last few hours. He had spent three hours in surgery last night repairing Jim's lacerated liver and spleen. Jim had lost a great deal of blood from internal bleeding and was already physically exhausted prior to surgery. The surgery had not gone well.

Three units of whole blood… and Jim's heart still stopped during surgery. He had bled so profusely they couldn't keep his volumes at acceptable levels, even though he was pushing it in as quickly as he could. Jim went into arrest half way through surgery. Tomas had tried to deal with the internal bleeding and McCoy had focused on restarting his friend's heart. Jim had been in tachycardia so long, it had damaged his heart. Even a young, strong heart like Jim's had its limits. The newest surgical techniques and medicines had given Jim a marginal chance. By the time they controlled the bleeding and repaired the damage, Jim's heart rate had stabilized somewhat and McCoy had been able to move on to the injured throat, which sustained more damaged than he'd first thought and required surgical repair.

Jim now laid in one of the CCU beds, a fourth unit of whole blood slowly dripping into his veins. Despite this, he was nearly as white as the blanket that covered him.

With a sigh, McCoy sank into the chair at a desk in the central location of the Critical Care Unit in Sickbay. He'd finally pulled himself away from Jim's bed to attend to his other duties. Dr. Puri's office was located in the main Sickbay area in the section that had been closed off due to damage. The desk was normally used as a circulation station for the nurses as it allowed the occupant a clear view of the patients in the CCU. McCoy had taken over it so he could keep a close eye on Jim and still fulfill his other duties.

As acting CMO, he now had the responsibility to direct the medical staff and oversee the care of the wounded, as well as finalize the medical examiner's reports which had been waiting for his signature – a task that was becoming more daunting with each signature. Most of the fatalities were green cadets. McCoy wondered if the dead count would have been lower if the crew had been more seasoned. But the truth was, they were no older than Jim. Maybe they had that sense of immortality that always seemed to come with youth and that had lead them to their deaths.

A monitor alarm sounded.

McCoy's head snapped up as he zeroed in on Jim's bed. He rose quickly and closed the distance even as a nurse rushed toward the bed. It was an oxygen saturation alarm. McCoy quickly assessed the problem. The seal on the oxygen mask had broken. He quickly reset the mask, leaning close to his friend while keeping his right hand securely over the mask; his left hand reached to the overhead monitor and silenced the alarm.

He looked closely at Jim, whose eyes were partially open, a liquid blue that was dulled by the medications. A very small frown marred the pale features. It was difficult to know how lucid Jim was. Patients coming out of extended surgery were always confused, their thoughts muddled by prolonged anesthesia and medications. With the blood loss and traumatic injuries, Jim would be struggling to understand where he was and what had happened.

"You're in Sickbay, Jim. You were bleeding internally. I took you into surgery. You're all right now."

Jim dragged his hand across his middle and McCoy quickly captured it, noting how overly warm the skin was. He removed his own hand from the mask, but kept a light grasp on Jim's hand, hoping the contact would ground his friend. He glanced up at the monitor and frowned.

Jim's temperature had increased a full degree since he'd last checked an hour ago. He looked down again at Jim who stared unseeing at him. The blue eyes were confused and filled with pain.

"Everything's all right, Jim. You can rest now."

Jim mouthed something, his frown deepening.

"You can't talk. Your throat's had surgery."

His eyes closed.

"Just rest," McCoy repeated and turned to the nurse. "Get a blood sample and run a culture."

"Yes, Doctor."

He stood by the bed and studied the pale face. Tension tightened the skin around the sunken eyes. Despite the analgesic, Jim was still feeling pain. Not surprising, considering they'd cut him open from navel to sternum. The contusions on the torso were substantial. Even the bruising on the left frontal and zygomatic bones hadn't improved, though he'd treated the fracture seventeen hours earlier, after Jim had disabled the Romulan drill. Medical protocol would have him pushing Vastox, the newest complex peptide and COX blocker effective in reducing contusions and inflammations. But he'd never tried the drug on Jim and the side-effects were risky, often compromising the cardiovascular system in humans.

McCoy looked up at the monitor again. Jim's heart rate had been stable since surgery, but not as strong as he would have liked. Stopping the internal bleeding was only one problem. The massive blood-loss had done considerable damage and Jim's already exhausted body was struggling to recover.

He looked down again at his friend. He had to admit that he didn't understand Jim's drive, that single-minded pursuit to win at all costs. He'd seen glimpses of his determination at the Academy, but nothing like what he'd witnessed in the past twenty-four hours.

"_I don't believe in no-win scenarios," Jim had told Spock._

But was that true? McCoy couldn't believe that all this was a desire to win. Jim wanted to stop Nero more than anything. Was it because Nero had killed Jim's father and sealed Jim's fate? An alternate reality. How different would Jim's life had been if Nero hadn't interfered?

He'd watched Jim on the bridge as Spock had ordered the _Enterprise_ to rendezvous with the fleet and abandon Pike to the Romulans. Jim had been enraged and unwilling to listen, arguing to the point of mutiny and earning him expulsion from the ship.

"How the hell did you get back here anyway?" McCoy asked quietly of the unconscious man.

Leave it to Jim Kirk, the only cadet to have beaten the Kobayashi Maru, to pull off the impossible. McCoy wasn't surprised that when he found himself marooned on Delta Vega, he'd refused to accept his fate. What was it McCoy had said to Spock? That kid doesn't know how to quit. But that didn't explain how he'd gotten back on the ship.

"Doctor."

Speak of the devil. He turned to the sound of the voice and saw Spock standing straight-backed and still just outside the private area where Jim lay. "Captain."

Whether he wanted it or not, Spock was captain now, overseeing the _Enterprise_. The fleet had all but been disseminated by the Romulan ship and _Enterprise_ had only just survived, holding together by a weakened hull and damaged engines. McCoy didn't even want to think about how close they'd come to certain death…or how close they still might be.

"You have an update on Captain Pike's condition?" Spock asked.

He took a step away from the bed and released Jim's hand. "He's stable, but critical. I've done all I can for him here. Starfleet Medical is better equipped for the specialized surgery he'll need."

Spock nodded once, his gaze drifting to the unconscious figure. "And the commander?"

He raised his eyes at the sudden demotion. He couldn't help it, but he saw the stern Vulcan with a lethal expression, his hand tightening around Jim's throat. "He's critical and unstable. How long before we get to Earth?"

"At our current speed, one week."

"One week!" They didn't have enough medical supplies to last a week, not to mention what the delay in treatment would do to Pike's recovery rate.

"I have notified Starfleet of our situation. They are sending a ship to transfer the wounded to Earth."

McCoy scowled. "You might've opened with that. When are they due to arrive?"

"In approximately eight hours."

He nodded. That didn't give him much time to prepare, but then again, it was a long time for patients like Jim and Pike who needed more care than the ship could provide. He looked at the unit of whole blood hanging above Jim. They had to ask for volunteers to get the four unitsJim needed. If he needed more….

The monitor beeped a warning.

McCoy glanced up, seeing Jim's heart rate fluctuate with an irregular rhythm. "Damn it," he said softly.

A nurse appeared on the opposite side of the bed.

"It's all right," he told her, dismissing her with a nod. The medication was supposed to be stabilizing Jim's heartbeat. He didn't like what he saw, but he didn't want to react to a singular event. It could be fatigue or stress that caused the irregular rhythm. Nothing catastrophic.

"Is there anything you need?" Spock asked.

He had almost forgotten the Vulcan was still there, and turned to him in time to see a pensive expression on the otherwise disciplined features. What, he wondered, did Spock think of all of this? Spock had nearly killed Jim, and this after charging him with cheating and trying to get him expelled from the Academy. Hell, he may have succeeded in doing just that. Jim was technically still on suspension, at least as far as Starfleet was concerned. Besides a handful of people, no one knew Jim was here.

"I have a list," McCoy said, "but I doubt you could fill it."

And like that, the mask was in place – passive and indifferent. Spock nodded once and left.

McCoy shook his head. The Vulcan was an enigma – stoic and reserved one moment, enraged and lethal the next. He'd seen his planet destroyed, his mother killed. Anyone else would have been curled in a fetal position under a desk nursing a bottle of malt liquor.

A soft moan drew his attention. He laid a reassuring hand on Jim's shoulder and watched as the tiny frown slowly eased and the man sank back into a heavy sleep. Jim always looked so young to him, but pale and struggling to breathe, the arrogant young man appeared vulnerable, something he was not used to seeing.

For the first time since stepping foot on the _Enterprise,_ he wondered what fate awaited Jim on Earth? Would the Academy Board rule in Spock's favor and expel Jim? Or would Jim's recent stint in command and the inarguable fact that he'd just saved Earth – by breaking all the rules – mean reinstatement?

Pressing the call button, he summoned a nurse to sit with Jim. He had a lot to do before the transport ship arrived and he wanted to make certain the new ship was prepared for the critically wounded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Transportation**

Voices drifted into Jim's mind before he was fully conscious. He couldn't understand the words, but the tone was hurried and demanding, a cacophony of sounds that crowded in on him, smothering…. Something was wound tight around his chest, a thick band anchoring him cruelly in place. His entire body was heavy and drained. Just beneath the exhaustion was an ache that penetrated to his bones.

Nero. He'd been captured.

Adrenaline surged through him as the thought took hold. His heart pounded in a quickening beat as a ringing reverberated through his skull. The drill….

The surface beneath him tipped and jerked. The ship was under fire and in danger. He felt his body sway limply with the sudden motion, awakening the first layer of pain.

He had to get to the bridge. He had to stop Nero.

"Hold up," a voice commanded.

Cool hands on his neck. It was difficult to breathe. There was something around his nose and mouth, pressing tightly, denying him air. He struggled against the band ever tightening around his chest, but the effort sent a ripple of pain deep within him, tearing into his lungs. He was trapped, bound and suffocating.

"Jim, you're all right. You're safe."

He wanted the mask off, but his body refused to cooperate with him. It was impossible to move against the restraints. Just the tiny effort of trying to lift his arm exhausted him. The buzzing in his head grew louder.

"Jim, listen to me. I need you to calm down."

Bones? What was he doing on Nero's ship?

"Do you want the Varlux?" A female voice.

"No, just give him a minute." A hand gently cupped the side of his face. "Jim, you've got on an oxygen mask. Just take small breaths and stop struggling. It's helping you to breathe."

He moaned. It sounded hollow and desperate.

"The transport's waiting, Doctor. He's the last one."

"Let them wait," Bones growled. "The damn ship was two hours late getting here."

Ship? Something pinched at his chest, sending a strange sensation rippling just beneath his ribs. It took an effort, but he opened his eyes to blinding light and an array of colorful images that swam like a poorly mixed painting. It made his head hurt. Somewhere in the kaleidoscope of colors was Bones, but his eyes wouldn't focus.

"Things might be a little fuzzy," Bones said. "Just relax and breathe."

A blurry image moved like a specter before him. He tried to talk, but his throat seized with a spasm of pain. A hot blade dug deep into his throat. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the pain to pass.

"I know." A hand to his forehead, gently pressing. "Don't try to talk."

He felt a tear slip past the closed lids and trickle into his ear. His body was waking up now and making all the pain known, from the gnawing at the center of his chest to the radiating heat in his belly. A shudder passed through him and he heard himself groan again.

The back of Bones' fingers brushed the moisture away and he heard his friend's voice, close to his ear and soft. "I'm right here with you, Jim."

And that's when he realized that he didn't want to be alone anymore.

"_You are not the captain?"_

The other Spock's words echoed in his mind, bringing with them a strange ache that settled deep within him. He felt the pull of the Vulcan's mind, the contentment of knowing someone intimately, and the longing to be one.

"Okay, let's move," Bones said sharply.

He felt the sensation of movement and finally understood he was on a gurney. He opened his eyes again, straining to focus. Despite the pain, he made an effort to concentrate. Where was Bones taking him? What about the ship? Pike?

The motion stopped and he heard the pneumonic hiss of shuttle doors.

He managed to lift his hand. His fingers glanced off soft fabric. Within moments, Bones face appeared in his line of sight. His friend seemed to sense what he wanted to know.

"We're transporting you onto a shuttle to the _USS Messenger_."

He shook his head. He was the captain.

"You can't stay on _Enterprise_, kid. I've got to get you to Earth."

_No. Fuck you._ He wasn't going back to Earth. There was nothing for him on Earth. There never had been. Nothing good happened on Earth. He wanted to stay.

"Doctor…"

"Jim. Stop struggling."

His chest squeezed tightly, his throat closing.

A harsh breath expelled. "Give him the Varlux."

He never heard the hiss of the hypo. He simply fell into darkness.

* * *

Jim opened his eyes slowly. His head felt stuffed and fuzzy, a distant ache that linger just beneath his thoughts. An oxygen mask was sealed tightly against his nose and mouth.

Sickbay. Shit.

He rolled his head along the pillow to take in his surroundings. The room was small and decorated in sterile white and electric blue. Not the _Enterprise_. The hum of engines vibrated beneath him. He liked the sensation, though he didn't know why.

He shifted slightly and cautiously in the bed, only to discover his movements felt cumbersome and labored. His body was heavy with a deep ache that settled into the marrow of his bones, pinning him to the soft surface of the bed. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. The mask felt oppressive and suffocating, the room small and confined….

He dragged his hand to the mask and broke the seal, letting the mask fall free. He took his first uninhibited breath like a man breaking the surface of water, only to discover the air stale and hot. His chest was tight and sore and all he could manage were faint, shallow breaths that seemed to exhaust him. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts drift.

What the hell had happened? He remembered his fight with Nero, rescuing Pike, jettisoning the warp core…. He'd saved the ship, but crippled it.

An alarm sounded softly, a musical chime that grew more distant with each breath.

He'd been on the bridge…or was it engineering?

"_You're coming with us?" he asked Spock._

"_No, Jim. My destiny lies along a different path. To stop Nero, you alone must take command of your ship."_

My ship…. The hard edges of the mask suddenly pressed against his face. Startled, he opened his eyes to see Bones standing over him, one hand on the mask, and the other punching buttons on the overhead display monitor. A scowl marred the doctor's face as he studied the monitor then deepened as the hazel eyes came to settle on Jim.

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

It took all his effort to move his hand and reach for Bones' hand that anchored the unwanted mask in place. He was too weak to do more than lightly grasp the sleeve with the tips of his fingers.

"Sorry. You have to keep that on." Bones gently drew Jim's hand away. "We tried the oxygen field and you didn't do very well."

He took a few controlled breaths, hating the smothering sensation of the mask.

"Where—" The words choked in his throat. He swallowed past the soreness and tried again. "Where am I?"

"_USS Messenger_ and don't talk. Your throat's still healing." Bones tapped on the IV regulator then pulled the blankets down from Jim's chest. His fingers were cold and made Jim flinch.

"That hurt?" Bones asked, his hands lying still on Jim's bare skin.

He shook his head once. He was oddly numb, but by god, he was tired. His thoughts were muddled and sluggish. There was something he was supposed to do…

A sharp pinch at his right breast drew his attention to the IV that was inserted into his chest. He followed the lines up to the colorful display of IV fluids that hung like party favors above him. The overhead lights lit up the streamers. They bobbed and danced—

Wait. What did Bones say?

"_Messenger_?" His voice sounded rough and faint. The mask muffled everything, including his breath.

Bones studied him for a moment with a very serious and clinical expression and then pulled the blanket back up to cover him. "Rest. We'll make Earth tomorrow."

He didn't want to go to Earth. He didn't want to be on the _Messenger_ or in this room tethered to the bed with an array of medical equipment, too weak to even push away the offending hands. And that brought up another thought.

"Why am…here?"

Bones stared at him perplexed.

"You mean the room?" Bones asked.

He nodded.

"You're in isolation. You picked up a nasty bug on the Romulan ship. It's playing hell with your platelet count, among other things."

He frowned. That couldn't be right. He'd fought Nero. He'd rescued Pike and saved Earth, saved the _Enterprise_. He had beaten the no-win scenario. His eyes began to close against his will, the strange heaviness pulling him down.

"Pike?" He struggled to open his eyes.

"He's stable. No sign of the virus." Bones' expression softened. "He's doing better than you right now."

His eyelids slid shut.

A cool hand rested on his forehead. "Sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

**Starfleet Medical Center**

McCoy rubbed his hands over his eyes, feeling the weariness sink into every muscle and bone, despite the four-hour rest he'd gotten while Jim was being processed into the isolation ward. It had been a long forty-eight hours, overseeing the transfer of fifty patients to the _Messenger_ ,then later coordinating the transfer to Starfleet Medical Center on Earth. The least serious patients were transported direct into the medical center, but the more serious, like Kirk and Pike, had to be transported via medical shuttle. The CMO of the _Messenger_ escorted Pike and two other critical patients. They had made it to SMC hours earlier.

Damn bureaucrats. He was still fuming at the delay. Jim was in quarantine on the last shuttle to leave. McCoy had taken one other nurse with him for the trip. Jim slept the entire time, heavily sedated. McCoy had been anxious to get Jim into the Center and settled, but once they landed they were kept in holding on the pad. For the next two hours, McCoy sat fuming in the shuttle waiting for clearance from Earth's Communicable Diseases Center and fretting over Jim, whose blood-pressure continued to fluctuate.

"Do you need anything else, Doctor?" a nurse asked.

He shook his head and stepped up to the bed where Jim lay. The isolation room was far from attractive. Sequestered in the west wing of the center, it offered little in the way of aesthetics. The windows were opaque with a dark gray tint, making the room feel more like a prison cell than a hospital room. The Surgeon General never wanted anyone to know the quarantine ward was in use and had ordered the new filters years ago. Access was limited to a few medical personnel who had clearance and, of course, visitors were forbidden.

He heard the nurse leave and felt the pressure reset in the room. There was a double set of doors into the room. The entire room was designed for virus and disease control; this was one of the top decontamination facilities in the Federation, certainly on Earth. Even as he stood there, he could feel the electric static field in motion around them, doing its job to control and sterilize.

McCoy studied the vitals monitor, not in the least satisfied with what he saw. They continued to give Jim platelets, trying to bring the count up and stabilize his vitals, but the virus present in his blood was aggressively attacking his organs. McCoy looked down at Jim's face, relaxed under heavy sedation. He'd be coming out soon, McCoy knew, and would have a hundred questions and demands, angry that he'd been brought to Earth. Not that McCoy could blame him. Jim had a lot to answer for. The academic suspension was still pending. And there was the mutiny incident, which was a matter of record. Staying in space may have seemed like a good option to Jim, but one way or another, all things returned to Earth.

A tiny frown marred the young man's otherwise placid features. The oxygen mask had been removed for the time and he was closely monitoring how Jim would do without the added support. Although the oxygen concentration was high in the room per McCoy's orders, Jim's O2 sats were still low. The virus was affecting the oxygen exchange in his cells. With Jim sedated and unmoving, his sats had held to an acceptable level. McCoy knew how much Jim fought the mask and had to balance his patient's stress levels with other medical needs. If he could keep Jim's saturation levels stabilized, he would prefer the mask stay off.

"You could go a little easy on me," he said to Jim as he checked the flow rate on the IV regulator. Jim's body was showing little signs of accepting the new medication. "Cooperate a little."

He sighed and stood back, then rolled the only chair in the room to his friend's side and waited. Within the hour, Jim began to cycle up from sedation, surprisingly slow. McCoy didn't have much experience with Jim as a patient, but the one thing he did know was that Jim had a sensitive system to sedatives. They absorbed quickly into his bloodstream and as quickly exited. He stood as Jim began moving, his vitals increasing with his awareness.

McCoy kept one eye on the monitor and one hand on Jim, hoping the touch would help ground Jim and make his rise to consciousness less stressful. He had no idea what Jim would remember. The meds they were giving him to regulate his heart caused significant amnesia. It was possible he wouldn't even remember what happened on the _Enterprise_ or the Romulan ship.

A low moan drew his attention back to Jim just as the young man's eyes fluttered open. His bright blue eyes were now dulled by the medications pushing through his veins. His pupils were wide as his eyes, unfocused and glassy, searched the room. His heart rate picked up to a steady beat.

"You're all right, Jim. You're in the Medical Center." He leaned close, trying to keep Jim's attention on him. "You've been hurt."

He watched as Jim struggled to process what he was saying. Heavily medicated and no doubt in pain, his thoughts would be muddled, his cognitive function lethargic. He frowned as he stared at McCoy. After a moment, he ran a tongue between his lips and swallowed, wincing.

McCoy nodded. "Your throat's sore. There was some damage to your larynx I had to repair. Want some water?"

Jim stared at him, not responding.

McCoy scowled. "Jim? Do you understand what I'm saying?" He glanced up at the monitor then took Jim's hand. "Squeeze my hand."

Nothing.

"Come on, Jim." He deepened his tone to a command and shook the limp hand. "Squeeze my hand."

Jim closed his eyes and weakly closed his fingers over Bones' hand.

"Good."

Opening his eyes, he stared at McCoy, his expression blank.

McCoy didn't like it. Jim's mind was mercurial and flexible, always in motion and two steps ahead of everyone else. Even the Vulcan had trouble keeping up with him. This sudden stalling worried McCoy. The meds were impacting his memory, but shouldn't be affecting the frontal lobe. "Tell me your name and rank."

Jim closed his eyes again for a moment before opening them. "Kirk, James T." His voice was hoarse and weak. He paused a moment before adding, "Captain?"

"Close enough," he said. "Where were you born?"

"In space." Jim rolled his head along the pillow and looked at the room. "Not on _Enterprise_," he said softly.

"No. Not _Enterprise_. Starfleet Medical Center. Earth." He could see clarity returning to the blue eyes. "You remember what happened?"

"Nero." Jim's voice was stretched thin and strained.

"Yes."

Jim shifted in the bed, moving his hand to his throat and wincing. "What happened?"

"Compliments of an angry Vulcan. You have a way of pissing people off."

Jim shivered, moving restlessly again. "A gift."

"Mm." He checked the monitor again, watching the O2 sat closely. The pain indicator was rising slightly. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been…stomped on."

"From what I could see, you were. You had a lot of internal bleeding. Damn lucky you came down to Sickbay when you did." He paused, studying the pale face shiny with perspiration from the high fever. "Do you know why you're here?"

Jim swallowed with difficulty. "You hate space?"

"I'm serious, Jim. Do you remember our conversation on the ship?"

The corners of Jim's eyes tightened and he shifted again as if trying to find a comfortable position. He pressed a hand to his ribs and stared at a spot behind McCoy. "Where's _Enterprise_?"

"A good four days out, limping back on impulse." He pinned Jim with a penetrating stare. "Answer my question."

Jim's eyes came back to McCoy and he shook his head slightly.

McCoy took a breath. "The medication we're giving you has some amnesic side-effects. How much do you remember?"

"Everything," he said slowly, "until I got to Sickbay." He looked at the multitude of IV solutions hanging above him, the catheter in his left hand and right chest. "What's all this?"

"You picked up an unknown virus on the Romulan ship. We're treating you with a broad-based anti-viral and some other things."

"Virus?" Jim's frown deepened and McCoy could see his thoughts go inward. "Not just virus. Something else."

McCoy briefly went over the details of his surgery and the effects the virus was having on his platelet count, oxygen saturation and immune system. "It's why you bled so much." He went on to explain how the _Messenger_ had been ordered to transfer the wounded and how Jim had come to occupy the quarantine ward. Through it all, Jim kept quiet, his gaze drifting to observe the room occasionally.

"This is isolation?"

"Quarantine," McCoy corrected. "Until you're cleared by the CDC and we're certain you're not contagious."

"How did I…get it?" He shivered again.

McCoy pulled the blanket closer and adjusted the temperature on the biobed. "We're not certain, but I think it's transferred through blood and not air-borne."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Jim's words were almost a whisper.

"Means you could get out of quarantine sooner."

Jim shifted again in the bed, wincing. "What about Pike?"

"He's not affected. Just you." He glanced at the monitor again, seeing the vitals increase. "Are you in pain?"

"I'm all right. Spock's okay?"

At that, McCoy raised his eyebrows. "Yes, he cleared medical." He didn't tell Jim that Spock had been asking about him every day and had helped to clear the red-tape during the transportation, making the journey to Earth as smooth as possible.

"I made a mess of things, Bones." He sounded despairing and looked away from McCoy. "Command's gonna be pissed."

"Don't worry about that now." He pressed a hand to Jim's shoulder, feeling the hot, fevered flesh. Command was pissed, but not at Jim as far as he could tell. Earth's defenses had been breached and Starfleet had lost half of its fleet. That was only the beginning of a long list that was keeping HQ busy. But Jim didn't need to know any of this right now. "You need to rest and stop talking for a while. Your throat's still recovering from surgery."

Jim kept his head turned away. His expression was mournful. McCoy had seen Jim tight with anger, bright eyed with mischievous, silly with drunkenness and flushed with excitement, but he couldn't remember ever seeing the young man so despondent. Even being beaten at the Kobayashi Maru hadn't lowered his spirits much or slowed his drive. That was the thing about Jim, knock him down and he got up swinging. Hell, he wouldn't even allow himself to be marooned.

The monitor binged and McCoy swore silently. Jim's temperature was up another half a degree. He tapped on the PADD he'd retrieved from the end of the bed and ordered another blood draw.

Jim pressed his hand to his side with a grimace. "Pike's okay?"

"They removed the slug yesterday without complication. He's recovering." He looked at the bright, fevered eyes. "Don't worry about Pike. Concentrate on your own recovery."

Jim snorted, grimaced again.

McCoy frowned and looked at the monitor. Jim's blood pressure was up slightly and the O2 sat had dropped marginally. He lowered the bed another fifteen degrees, hoping to even out Jim's blood pressure. Seeing Jim's face tighten from discomfort, he tapped the commands on the monitor panel that would show a more detailed scan of Jim's blood flow.

The doors to the room slid open and a nurse entered. "You ordered a blood draw, Doctor."

He spared her a quick glance. He was working with new nurses and medical personnel, Starfleet officers assigned to the Center. It made him a little uneasy working with new people who didn't know Jim, only his medical history. He nodded his approval to the nurse before returning to study the panel. Out of his peripheral, he saw the nurse moving to draw blood from a new site.

"Use the catheter," he ordered a little too sharply. Blood draws were simple and quick, but when a patient had a low platelet count, as Jim did, they could be dangerous. He watched her as she completed the task and left, then gave the monitor a final study. Looking down at Jim, who had kept silent and still during the draw, he said, "I'm going do a quick examination. Tell me if you feel any pain. I'll be as quick as I can."

Drawing the blankets back, he bared Jim to just below the navel, exposing his abdomen. The scar from the surgery was red and raw, despite the added cellular regens he had put in. Normally, the scar would have faded by now, but the virus and added meds were prolonging recovery of even the simplest of wounds. He looked up at the monitor again, seeing the enlarged spleen, which was no doubt causing Jim some pain. Dropping his eyes to his patient, he palpated Jim's abdomen, watching for signs of pain while letting his practiced fingers tell him what the scan could not.

* * *

Jim kept staring at the plain wall as Bones pulled back the covers. He tried not to shiver as the air hit his fevered skin. It was difficult to breathe and he was dizzy just lying there, connected to IVs and various tubes, looking like something out of a mid-twentieth century photo. Quarantined. Jesus. Just his luck to get some fucking Romulan virus no one heard of. Nero probably brought it from the future and there's no cure.

"_I know your face from Earth's history. Captain Kirk was a great man. He became captain of the Enterprise. A future I'm going to deprive you of, just as I deprived your father."_

Bones' hands were cool as they touched his belly. His entire body ached, not just his middle, which radiated its own kind of hell, but his back and limbs, as well. His neck was stiff and his throat felt rubbed raw and swollen. But Bones' touch was gentle and oddly reassuring as his fingers pressed into him, eliciting a soft grunt from him.

"That hurt?"

"S'okay," he said, not looking at his friend. The walls spun around him as he drew a shaky breath and tried to suppress a shiver. His skin seemed hyper-sensitive, the air grazing his chest like the brush of steel wool.

A gray mist fell over him. He heard Bones' voice, warm and tranquil, but he couldn't understand the words. He was thinking how he'd beaten Nero, beaten the man who had killed his father and altered all their destinies forever.

"_In your time, did I know my father?" he asked Spock._

"_Captain Kirk was a great man." Nero wasn't mocking, but stating a fact that meant nothing to him._

He'd saved Pike, saved Earth and the _Enterprise_. He'd been certain about so many things, certain that the _Enterprise_ was warping into a trap, certain that Nero was headed for Earth and wanted to destroy the Federation, and certain his plan was going to work. So why did he feel like a failure?

"_You are not captain?" The older Spock's tone had been incredulous, a sharp contradiction to the commander on the landing bay, whose tone had been flat and dismissive._

"_Kirk, you're on academic suspension." The commander had said, but he might as well have said, "Kirk, you're a fuck up."_

They had all been happy to leave him behind. Even Pike had been pissed and had made no attempt to remedy the board's ruling. It was only because of Bones that he'd gotten on board the ship at all. Bones, who was his only friend…and who also had left him marooned. But there was something else, too, something buried deep in the caverns of his mind, an idea or memory of two men more than brothers, of a love that lasted a hundred and twenty-five years.

_T'hy'la._

He sank deeper, seeking the source of the word.

Something pressed against his nose and mouth. Within seconds, his vision cleared, his mind sharpened and the room stopped spinning. He saw Bones' worried face floating above him, the dark brows low on the hazel-colored eyes.

"…for a few minutes," Bones said.

As quickly as the familiar and yet alien sensation of the other had come to him, it had left, leaving him firmly in the present with all his worries. He hated the mask that Bones held in place, the hard edges pressing against his nose and mouth. The oxygen was cool and fed his starving body. Still, he tried to turn away.

"Just for a few minutes," Bones reassured him, holding the mask firmly in place and never taking his eyes off him.

_I knew my father_, he wanted to tell Bones, feeling a weariness settle in, pulling on his lids. _I was captain. I had a different life._ Not for the first time he wondered what his life would have been like if his father hadn't died. The thought had always been vague and distant, followed by anger at the unrealized promises his life. But this time it brought a deep hollow ache to him, like the ache he had felt during the mind-meld on Delta Vega. And like then, he felt the pull of the other Spock, as if he were in the meld again, sharing the Vulcan's memories of a man long dead, a man deeply loved and respected, a brilliant commander, a legend. It hurt more than anything Nero had done to his body.

Bones frowned.

Shit. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes as sadness and despair filled him. He'd been trying to outrun his father's shadow his entire life, always feeling cheated somehow, living a life that didn't seem quite real. He'd been content to keep running, swinging away at anything in front of him, angry at those who had more, and relying only on himself. But in the past three years he'd discovered he didn't like running any more….

He'd grown accustomed to the camaraderie of the Academy and sharing meals with fellow classmates. He'd even made a friend or two.

"Jim?" Frowning and looking concerned, McCoy glanced at the monitor and removed the mask. "Better?"

He closed his eyes. A tear squeezed out and ran down his temple.

He was alone again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Quarantine**

When McCoy entered Jim's room two days later, he found his friend curled on his side, sleeping peacefully. Out of habit, he raised his gaze to the monitor, though he already knew what the display revealed. He'd read the detailed report an hour ago before being delayed by the Surgeon General, who had demanded a meeting.

"_The Infectious Disease physician can't identify the strain," Kettrig said, tapping her well-manicured fingers on the PADD to emphasis her point. "And Kirk isn't responding to the treatment."_

_McCoy took a breath. "He's allergy-prone. His system is highly sensitive. His not responding doesn't mean the virus is untreatable."_

"_Really, Doctor McCoy." Kettrig was a tall, thin woman with aristocratic features that made her appear almost regal. Her tone, on the other hand, was nothing short of condescending. "And you are basing that on what?"_

"_He's still alive." He knew he was being flip and risking a reprimand he couldn't afford. He was already on thin ice with command for sneaking Jim on board under false pretenses and violating his Hippocratic Oath in the process. But he couldn't help it. This woman knew nothing about Jim other than the stats she held in her hand and the reports she had read. _

_She stared at him, unamused. "I don't appreciate your glib attitude, Doctor. This is a serious matter. I'm responsible for the health of the population on Earth and any species that comes in contact with it. Whatever Kirk contracted on that Romulan ship, I don't want it going any further. I don't need Kirk being patient zero for a planet-wide epidemic."_

_He pressed his lips together, feeling his temper rise. "A single case isn't indicative of an epidemic. Pike didn't get the virus and he was on the ship a lot longer than Ji—then Kirk was." His words were tight. "It could be isolated to him due to his sensitive system. He's been showing improvement the last twenty-four hours. His platelet count is coming back up—"_

"_And he still has a high fever and he can't hold his sats," she interrupted. "I went to medical school, too."_

_Good for you. _

"_I want blood draws every two hours and a report every four. You're personally responsible for sending the report to me, no one else. Understood?"_

"_Understood," he said tightly, settling his shoulders back and using all his self-restraint to control his expressions. He hated when his medical care was undermined by a tight-assed bureaucrat who probably hadn't seen a patient in three years._

"_I want an answer to this now," she said sternly. "The longer we keep Kirk in quarantine, the more likely it is that someone is going to find out about it and I'll have a panic on my hands. I already have half of HQ asking to speak to him. I can only stall for so long." She pinned him with a penetrating stare. "And for Christ's sake don't let him die. I'll have a hell of lot of explaining to do"_

McCoy put the conversation behind him as he approached Jim's sleeping form. It was strange to see Jim so still. In the three years he'd known the man, Jim had rarely been motionless. It was difficult to remember that only a few days ago he'd been running after Jim on the _Enterprise_, trying desperately to give him a cortisone hypo to counteract the allergic reaction. This new stationary pose worried him. Now, pale and utterly still, Jim barely resembled the over-eager, impetuous man who had defied all the rules to win.

Jim had been in quarantine for three days now and was on his second experimental treatment, the first having produced nothing more than a headache. McCoy had conferred with the ID doctor and they had agreed that a new course of treatment was warranted. Jim had been sleeping when they had started it, and McCoy now needed to update his friend on where they were at with his treatment. Something Jim wasn't going to like.

He studied the monitor a moment longer, seeing the O2 sats low and the respirations slightly increased. The cardiogram showed PVCs and a yellow warning light. The cardiac medication wasn't working as well as he had hoped, the results unpredictable. Despite the damage to his heart, Jim should have a stronger, more regular rhythm by now.

Looking down at Jim curled on his side, he frowned. The position compressed the chest cavity and suppressed respirations. But he knew that Jim's abdomen had been hurting and no doubt the new position was more comfortable then lying flat on his back. The oxygen field that surrounded the head of the bed delivered a high-concentrate of oxygen at a rate slightly lower than a mask. It was barely keeping the oxygen saturation levels at an acceptable percentage.

Nothing was easy with Jim. Even a simple inoculation had turned deadly. And now there was this unknown virus from an alien race that had traveled back in time from the future, a virus that could potentially cause a pandemic on Earth. Jim had saved Earth, and now he could possibly destroy it.

He found himself reaching out to stroke the soft hair, matted with sweat from the high fever. Jim would deck him if he woke up and found McCoy offering comfort. He could only imagine his friend's reaction to his sudden show of compassion.

"_A little suffering's good for the soul," he had told Jim as the man leaned more heavily on him, unsteady and reeling, yet immediately cocky and arrogant when a nurse walked by, only showing his wretchedness when they were alone._

"_I wish I didn't know you."_

"_Don't be such an infant."_

He'd said it gruffly to snap Jim out of his misery and get him to settle down before someone noticed that there was an unauthorized person on board. Now he wondered if he'd been too hard on Jim. He withdrew his hand and sighed, feeling his own fatigue. He hadn't slept much in the past week, was still filling out reports and answering questions, conferring with the Chief of Surgery at the Center over Pike's condition. The rest of the injured crew had been assigned to the Center and those on _Enterprise_, scheduled to dock tomorrow, would require his attention again. For now, he had only Jim to worry about, and the possibility that they might not find a cure for whatever virus had gotten into his bloodstream. If they didn't discover a treatment, it could cause the young man to be discharged from Starfleet.

Jim's eyes fluttered open and McCoy was suddenly staring into translucent blue eyes.

"Shit," Jim said faintly.

McCoy raised his eyebrows, tilting his head down. "Glad to hear your voice is getting better."

Jim slowly rolled onto his back, moving like a man who was pulling twice his weight, and grimaced as he settled onto his back, gasping from exertion. "How long…have I been here?"

"Three days. You slept almost all of yesterday." McCoy continued to watch him, his clinical eyes trained to see the smallest variation in expression, color, heart rate. Jim was uncomfortable, that much was certain, but there was something else in the eyes that had nothing to do with physical pain.

"Still tired," Jim said weakly and closed his eyes, his breathing a little labored. Suddenly he snapped open his eyes and frowned. "Three days?"

"Three days." McCoy stood unmoving, watching as thoughts played across the pale face, shifting the muscles subtly beneath the flushed cheeks, making Jim look impossibly young and a little petulant.

"I don't remember that." His words were distant and dream-like.

"You've been pretty sick."

Jim put a hand to his throat as his expression tightened. "Feels like I swallowed glass."

"Don't be so dramatic. Let me take a look." His words were flat, but his touch was gentle as his fingers rested on the slim column of Jim's throat, carefully feeling the tissues around the larynx. "Swallow."

While he concentrated on what his fingers were feeling, he paid attention to the obvious pain Jim experienced in swallowing. "Still some residual swelling, but it's almost healed. There was a lot of damage. I'm going to keep you on soft foods for another day or two."

"Terrific." Jim rolled his head away from McCoy and pressed a trembling hand to his side.

"I'm lowering your pain meds for a while," he said, checking the flow of the new medication he'd ordered. "We're trying a new treatment. But I want you to tell me if you get too uncomfortable."

Silence.

"Jim?" He noticed the slightly labored breathing and the pensive expression that had settled in the blue eyes. "Jim, did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

He let out a pent-up breath and stepped a little more into Jim's view. "I know this is difficult, Jim. I know how you hate being confined, but we don't have much of a choice. Until we can isolate what this virus is and treat it successfully…you're not going to be cleared for duty." He didn't add that if they couldn't discover what was going on, his friend could be grounded from space flight, or even discharged.

Jim gave a snort of derision. "I'm not an idiot, Bones. I'm on academic suspension." He swallowed with difficulty. "They'd love a chance to get rid of me without the tribunal. Less paperwork."

"One thing has nothing to do with the other," McCoy said flatly. "This is strictly a medical issue."

Jim stared back at him, the high flush on his cheeks more prominent now with his return to consciousness. "One that conveniently isolates me from everyone."

"Now you're getting paranoid." He grabbed Jim's chart from the end of the bed, noticing the yellow warning on the O2 sat on the monitor. "I don't want you to worry about the Academy Board right now. Your fever's still pretty high and you need to rest. I'm going to try a new antipyretic and see if that reduces your fever."

"Why aren't the bruises healing?" Jim asked, but it sounded more a demand.

"Your platelet count is low, that means your blood isn't clotting the way it should." He glanced up from the chart. "Means you bruise easily." He paused at Jim's defying look. "It's part of what the virus is causing. We'll treat the bruises when your platelet count stabilizes."

Jim held his gaze for a moment longer, before looking away. "Still hard to breathe."

"I know," he said, fixing Jim with a hard glance. Jim had a right to be frustrated and impatient, and he was feeling sore and sick. But McCoy couldn't coddle him. The last thing Jim needed was someone buying into his misery. "I'm working on that. There are elements to this virus that are unknown. The best infectious disease doctors in the Federation are working on a treatment. We're going to find something, Jim. It's just taking time. Until then, you have to stay put."

"So, I'm fucking typhoid Mary." Jim let out an exaggerated sigh and shifted again in the bed, wincing as he moved. "Perfect."

McCoy looked at the younger man for a long moment, wishing there was something he could say that would make him feel better, but the truth was, Jim was in a difficult position that had few good outcomes. They might find a treatment for the virus and Jim still might be expelled. Or they might not find a treatment for the virus and Jim would be discharged.

The beginning throb of a headache settled in the back of his head. He couldn't think of the outcomes now or what the future held for Jim or himself. He had to focus his energy on getting Jim well.

He returned his attention to the chart and scowled at the results from the blood draw. He didn't like what he was seeing. Jim's platelet count was dropping again. Quickly, he tapped his new orders into the chart.

"Why'd you bring me to Earth?" Jim asked miserably.

"Where else was I going to take you?" He set the chart aside, feeling his own impatience rise. McCoy didn't expect Jim to be a cooperative patient, but this petulance and drama was quickly turning into self-indulgence. These past few days hadn't been easy on him, either. "You couldn't stay on the _Enterprise _forever, Jim."

"You sure tried to get me off in a hurry."

"What's that supposed to mean?" McCoy asked, narrowing his gaze.

"This little virus plays right into your plans. You never wanted me to be captain."

"That's not true." He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. He knew what this was about, the scene on the bridge when Jim had challenged Spock. They hadn't spoken of it, but he'd seen the look in Jim's eyes as he'd sided with Spock. Now that indomitable face that had stared down Nero was pale and pinched with distress. "I'm not having this conversation with you now," he said sternly. "You need to rest."

Jim shifted again, agitated by pain and fever. He took a halting breath and glared at McCoy. "You can't keep me here."

"I'm not keeping you here, Jim. The CDC is. I'm just treating you."

"Go to hell." What little color he had in his face bleached out. His scowl deepened and he closed his eyes. "I want another doctor."

"Sorry. You've got me."

A warning on the monitor sounded softly. McCoy looked up and saw the urine output alarm. He read the chemical display: Blood in the urine. Jim was bleeding again. _Goddamn it._

* * *

For a long time Jim only remembered feeling the sharp aches deep within his body. They were present as he lay still, but woke with a vengeance as he moved restlessly, as though trying to outmaneuver the pain. The fever assaulted him, boiling his blood and heating his skin until even the feel of the sheets against his skin brought discomfort. At times he would lie still as death, exhausted and laboring to breathe like a hound at the end of a run, aware only that someone was with him, speaking in a soft voice that murmured beneath the exhaustion and offered serenity. Other times he was in constant motion, fighting with his body and the hands that seemed to persistently be on him – restraining, ministering…soothing.

He wanted none of it.

His mind filled with remembered images from another life, of a Kirk who had commanded the _Enterprise_ and had earned the loyalty of a Vulcan that spanned decades. He had seen, in the other's mind, the life he had been denied because of Nero, the life of a man who had become a legend. And there, coalescing in the fevered images, was Pike standing over him with a look of pity and indignation.

"_Do you feel like you might be meant for something better? If you're half the man your father was…"_

Half the man.

He saw his brother, Sam, standing in the dust dry road outside the rundown Iowa farm, as he begged him not to go.

"_You can't be a Kirk in this house," Sam had answered._ Jim didn't know what that meant; he only knew that Sam was leaving him to be alone with a man who despised him and a mother who ignored him.

In the moments when he stopped his struggling and his body lay still from exhaustion, the memory would come to him like a lethal snake that had waited for his surrender. In the quiet he would feel the love the older Spock had for the other Kirk, a bond deeper than brothers that was profound and genuine and absolute. A love that had been denied him – a genius repeat offender accused of cheating. Standing on the precipice of a life he knew he would never own, he cried, watching it hover just beyond his reach, losing it as he had always lost everything in his life. Alone.

"It's all right. You're not alone," the voice said, wiping at his tears as he moved away from the touch and into darkness.

On the edge of his consciousness, he felt a cool damp cloth soothe his fevered skin. The voice was there again, deep and reassuring. It seemed to stay with him, but not be a part of him. He reached for it, trying to anchor it, fearful it would abandon him, but it was like capturing a shadow. Nothing solid stayed for him. Whenever he tried to hold to the fleeting touches, they slipped through his fingers, leaving him alone again.

Then there was nothing. No sound. No images. Only darkness where he waited, as if he didn't exist at all. Until he heard a voice….

"Hold still…just another minute."

A sharp tug at his left side drew a soft, startled cry from him.

"I know. I know," the voice soothed. "Almost done. Seal that."

A pinch followed by numbing coolness.

He struggled to open his eyes. The light hurt him, though he couldn't see much beyond blurry images that bobbed and swayed around him. He closed his eyes again and took a few cautious breaths, feeling a strange heat along his side, just below his ribs. Instruments clicked and whirred, reminding him where he was. He opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw clearly was Bones standing close to the bed, leaning over him slightly and concentrating on his side. A nurse stood on the other side, equally focused. Bones handed her something he couldn't see. She set it on the tray she held and left without looking at him.

"Sorry about that," Bones said, snapping off his gloves before pulling the blanket up to cover him. "I thought you'd sleep through the afternoon. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," he said. The word seemed drawn out. "Sore."

Bones nodded. "You had a severe allergic reaction to the new treatment. It took us a while to counteract it. You're doing better on the new drug."

He wanted to give Bones one of his A_re you kidding me?_ looks, the one he saved for asshole bullies who thought he was too drunk to hit back, but all he could manage was to lift one eyebrow. "We have different definitions of better, Bones."

"You're doing a lot better than you were yesterday," Bones said.

"I don't remember yesterday."

"My point exactly," his friend said, checking the lines of his IVs.

Jim looked around, feeling the room spin slightly at the movement. He was still in isolation in the same sterile, nondescript room that smelled of antiseptics, still on Earth...still a genius repeat offender.

_Fuck_.

He restlessly moved his legs, trying to shift positions, only to be brought up short by a pull in his belly. "My side hurts." A pain radiated inward, digging in deep. He pressed a hand to it, feeling the tenderness. "What were you doing?"

"I removed a drainage tube." Bones gently pulled his hand away and rested it on the bed before he looked up at the monitor. "You were bleeding internally, but we have that under control now. Your platelet count is stabilized, which is good. If it holds for another twenty-four hours, we can begin the next phase of your treatment."

Bleeding? He let the thought dissolve. "You found a cure?"

"Not exactly." Bones looked down at him with a worried, soft expression he'd never seen before. "But we've isolated some of the virus."

Virus? Yeah, that's right. He had a virus, a fucking Romulan virus. He couldn't make his brain work. He was so tired and his thoughts were fuzzy and drifting. But one thought stood out with clarity: Why was Bones being so nice to him? "Are you telling me everything?"

Bones' soft expression morphed into one of sympathy. "Yes, Jim. Go back to sleep."

He didn't want to sleep. Something was wrong, but he couldn't separate the thought from all the others images that were swirling in his mind – the older Spock, his father, Nero, Pike. All of them seemed to be calling to him, angry and disappointed. He tried to lift his head, but barely managed to move it before it fell back.

"Take it easy." Bones pressed a hand to his shoulder. "You have to lay still for now. You lost quite a bit of blood."

He shut his eyes, cursing softly. The room spun gently. He could feel Bones laying a hand to his forehead, and then nothing.

When he opened his eyes again he was alone. The room had been dimmed. He took a moment to take inventory of his body, which felt pleasantly numb. He was still flat on his back, but this time he didn't try to move. Staring up at the nondescript ceiling seemed to fit his mood. At least he didn't have to see the array of medical equipment that surrounded him, blinking a colorful display of his bodily functions and mocking his condition.

Someone had turned off the sound on the monitors and he welcomed the silence, as well as the solitude. He had gotten accustomed to not being alone these past three years. Between sharing a room at the academy and crowding his schedule with classes, he'd barely had a moment to himself. His off time had been spent in quantum physics or with Bones, sharing a drink in an off-the-wall bar. Now the silence rose around him and he let it cradle him, sinking into the stillness.

…The screams came from deep within his mind, breaking the surface in a deafening chorus, as if they had been waiting for just this moment to escape. It was so unexpected and terrifying that it choked the breath from him. He felt his heart pound rapidly as he tried to catch his breath and make his lungs work, but everything seemed paralyzed, buried beneath the piercing screams. They were dying, and it only took a few seconds for their minds to recognize that their lives were over, that escape was futile. Long after the planet had been consumed, they still screamed, and he found himself screaming with them as if they were all one being and he, too, was dying.

He was suddenly aware he was no longer alone. A nurse and a stern looking doctor were around him, the man scanning the monitor and looking worried. His mouth moved, but Jim couldn't hear his words. All he heard was the Vulcans screaming.


	5. Chapter 5

**Stabilizing**

"What do you mean you think it was just a sympathetic response?" McCoy asked, staring down Dr. Betz who had the unpleasant job of explaining why he had not alerted McCoy of Jim's reaction in the night. "You had to give him 15ccs of tri-ox and a dose of Varlux. That's a hell of a sympathetic response."

"The reaction was severe, but not life-threatening," Betz said, pulling himself up to his full height, which still put him thirteen centimeters shorter than McCoy. And then, as if to justify his actions, said, "His vitals stabilized."

"_After_ you sedated him." His grip tightened on the chart he held. "You dropped his blood-pressure _stabilizing_ his vitals. You could have sent him into shock."

"That wasn't even a remote possibility. His blood-pressure was in an acceptable range."

There had only been a few times in McCoy's career when he wanted to throw a doctor out of his practice. This was one of them. "You're off the roster. Relinquish your security chip and get the hell out of here."

He didn't wait for a response but turned on his heels and walked down the corridor towards Jim's room, leaving Betz to stutter. _Jackass._ The man had five years of practical experience and he thought he knew what he was doing. McCoy fumed as he stormed down the hall. It had taken him five days to isolate the elements of the virus and stabilize Jim, and this man almost undid everything in one night. _Sympathetic response, my ass_. The details of Jim's chart showed a neurological event that mimicked a nightmare. But the electro patterns were off and there was activity in limbic system, as if Jim had had a seizure. Of course Betz didn't check for that, so certain that Jim was in the grips of a nightmare and had become overwhelmed.

It was bad enough he had to deal with Izidd, the ID doctor, and the CDC; now he could add incompetent internists to the list. _I take one night off…._ But he needed his sleep, as well, after battling Jim's high fever and low crit count. They had isolated enough of the virus to control the symptoms and he'd felt confident that they were making progress and that Jim was on the road to recovery. Now if he could only convince Kettrig.

He slowed his pace as he approached Jim's room, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing. Jim might be ill, but he was still pretty sharp when it came to knowing McCoy. He didn't want his friend to sense his frustration. Relaxing his shoulders, he put on his medical mask and stepped into the room, the sealed doors parting automatically at his approach.

Jim was resting with his eyes closed, inclined at a twenty degree angle. His complexion was still waxy and pale, marred by the mottled bruising that had begun to fade to a watery grey-green. They had not been able to start the recommended treatments for hematomas due to the virus. Without them, Jim was healing, but slowly. At McCoy's approach, he opened his eyes. Illness had not dulled their intensity. In the artificial light, they looked like exquisite Larmanian sapphires, luminous and forbidden.

"You look better," McCoy greeted.

And he did. The nurses had given him a bath and changed the linens. His hair had been washed and the blond strands stuck out softly from the top of his head, making him appear ridiculously young.

"How are you feeling?" McCoy asked, noting the bruised, darkened skin under his eyes.

"Terrific," Jim said flatly. He made no attempt to move, but stared at the ceiling, seeming disinterested and preoccupied. There was a slight crease between his eyes, the faintest hint of a scowl that told McCoy his friend had a headache and was trying to hide it.

"You didn't eat your breakfast," McCoy said easily, finding his way around the room and watching Jim out of his peripheral vision.

"Not hungry."

Jim was losing weight he couldn't afford to lose. His already slender body had been drawing on its reserves to fight off the virus. His body chemistry indicated as much. McCoy tapped an order for a nutrient IV without explaining what he was doing to Jim, not wanting an argument that would just make him upset and wouldn't change his decision anyway. He stopped at the side of the bed and drew the blanket down. "Any pain in your abdomen?"

"No."

"The incisions are healing." He examined the dark pink line where he had cut into the abdomen. "No tenderness?"

A barely perceptible shake of Jim's head, his eyes closing for a moment.

"Dizzy?"

"A little."

He glanced up at the monitor to look at the O2 sat, which was in an acceptable range. He pulled the blankets back up as he noticed Jim shiver. "Your red blood cells are still low. I'll order a unit of whole blood. That should warm you up."

"Maybe if they stop taking my blood I won't need to replace it."

McCoy winced inwardly, but his voice was steady. "That's protocol for now." He'd lost his argument with Kettrig last night for a reprieve on the blood draws. The recent tests showed a leveling of the platelets and a decrease in the white cell count. No unknown elements were found in the blood, but the young man was still obviously very sick.

Jim blew out a soft, frustrated breath and looked up at him. "How much longer am I going to be here?"

"You still have a fever. But your heart rate is stable and the damage to your heart is repaired. You still need to take it easy, but…that's good." He set the chart down. "Plus your platelet count is coming up and holding."

"So I can go?"

He looked at his friend. Not for the first time in his professional career did he want to tell the patient exactly what the he wanted to hear, instead of the truth he was bound by ethics to say. "No, Jim. We have to identify the cause. And the CDC has yet to clear you."

Jim held his gaze. In that moment, McCoy saw him as he'd been in their first meeting – wounded and full of promise. Then something darkened Jim's eyes, a shadow passing behind the blue orbs.

"What about the Vulcans?"

The question came out of nowhere, surprising McCoy. "The Vulcans?"

"They lost their home planet, Bones, their population decimated."

And Starfleet had lost half its fleet and thousands of crew, yet Jim focused on Vulcan.

"The survivors are on Earth. I don't know much more than that." He'd spent every waking hour at the Center. He knew the _Enterprise_ had docked, but other than the wounded crew he'd seen, and that awkward meeting with Commander Spock, he knew little.

"How long have they been here?"

"A few days, I think." He studied Jim, wondering why Vulcan suddenly had caught his attention. "Why?"

Jim looked away. "Just wondering."

Jim could bullshit with the best, but he was tired and his reserves were gone, making him as transparent as McCoy's six-year old daughter. He sighed heavily and pulled a chair up to the bed. "What's going on, Jim? Something's eating at you and it's not about this virus."

"It's not?"

"No. It's not." He pinned Jim with a penetrating stare. "Why the sudden burning interest in Vulcan?"

"They were the catalyst, weren't they?" His tone was flat. "The reason Nero came back, why he hated the Federation and killed—so many people."

He hadn't said it, but McCoy had heard Jim's unspoken words: _'Including my father.'_

George Kirk was a forbidden subject between them, and one McCoy typically would not push. But given the events of the past week, it was difficult not to notice the obvious correlation between Nero, Spock and the destruction of Vulcan. "You were speaking Vulcan last night." He'd read Betz report at length. "That was more than a nightmare."

Jim turned away, but McCoy still saw the distress clearly mapped across the pale face, saw Jim's hand twist in the blanket. He hated seeing his friend like this, weak and hurting. Uncertain.

"Talk to me, Jim," he said.

"I don't know what to say," he said softly, still looking away. "My whole life was supposed to be different. Nero changed everything. In the other time…I knew my father. I was captain of the _Enterprise_."

"You were captain in this time, too. Or have you forgotten that you saved Earth from the same fate as Vulcan?" And then he frowned. "How do you know that, about your father?"

"I just know." The words were spoken as a whisper. He turned to McCoy with an expression that made him look broken. "My life was supposed to be different."

What could McCoy say to that? He'd thought the same thing about his own life a dozen times in the past three years. Dr. Leonard McCoy, trauma surgeon, husband, father. He was supposed to be living in a fully automated four-bedroom house with a yard, joining the neighborhood circle and attending boring parent-teacher meetings. Not trying to stay alive on a floating tin can while crazed Romulans shot at him. How many times had he felt exactly like Jim, that somehow life had screwed him royally?

The surprising thing was Jim had never really spoken with him about his home life, and from what McCoy knew from the hints he'd dropped over the years, there were plenty of reasons for Jim to feel bitter, not the least of which was a hero father who had died on the day of his birth. So, why was Jim suddenly feeling as though he'd been cheated?

"Different how?" he asked Jim.

Jim's expression faltered for a moment. There was indecision in the eyes. "Nero told me James T. Kirk was a great man."

"I believe him." McCoy's gaze steadied. "But that doesn't explain why you're upset. And speaking Vulcan. Which I didn't even know you could do, by the way."

"Neither did I." Jim shifted in the bed, arching slightly as if needing to stretch stiff muscles, wincing as he did so. "I met someone on Delta Vega."

Haltingly, prodded on by McCoy's questions, Jim told him about the other Spock and the mind-meld they had shared, reliving the destruction of Romulus, the black-hole and the final destruction of Vulcan twenty-five years later. When Jim finished, McCoy looked at his friend for a long time, trying to control his temper. Humans knew very little about Vulcan mind-melds, other than they caused emotional discomfort in humans. Medically, he was not aware of any incidences where humans had been verifiably hurt during the process, but then, very few humans had experienced it; those who had, from all reports, did not want to repeat it.

Jim's mind was dynamic, but undisciplined, as far as Vulcans were concerned. An aging Vulcan – could it really have been Spock? – had melded with him as if it were nothing more than a handshake. He'd had no consideration for Jim's inexperience or the potential repercussions of the meld. And Jim, goddamn it, reckless as all hell, probably never stopped to consider the dangers.

"Don't be pissed," Jim said weakly before he could speak.

"Why not?" he fired back.

"He saved our lives."

And cost a couple of billion, too, he thought. He let it go. "What happened last night?"

Jim's face paled even more, and a deep sorrow settled in his eyes as he looked away from McCoy. "I'm tired, Bones."

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, kid." He suspected last night was more about the mind-meld than anything else, and that concerned him. "If there's something medically—"

"There's nothing to say," Jim interrupted abruptly, a flush coloring his pale cheeks. "I screwed up. They're going to kick me out. End of story."

"It's not the end of the story and don't change the subject. I was talking about last night."

"So was I," Jim said softly.

There were a few things McCoy knew about Jim with certainty. One, he hated losing. Two, when he was right he was right. Three, his ability to charm others was measured against an equal ability to piss them off. Four, he stood by his friends no matter what. And five, he was stubborn as all hell. All four of these were working against McCoy now.

"You didn't screw up, Jim. You were a damn good captain. You saved the lives of your crew and countless more lives in the Federation. And you were only a captain for a few hours."

Jim kept his head turned away, but McCoy could see that some of his words had hit home.

"I don't know about this other Jim Kirk," McCoy continued gently. "But I know about you. I know what you can do. And now, so does Starfleet. Whatever happens, you have to know that you made a difference, that it meant something, these past three years."

Slowly, Jim turned his head to look at McCoy. "What if it's all I have, Bones? All I'll ever have? What if this is it?"

He looked at Jim as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. "You saved Earth and whole goddamn Federation, Jim. What more do you want?"

"I want it all, Bones. I want the life Nero took from me."

Something went cold in McCoy. For a moment he felt everything that he'd lost – wife and daughter, home. "That life doesn't exist, Jim. You only got the life you have."

Jim stared at him for a moment than raised a single brow. "Your bedside manner really does stink."

* * *

Jim stood under the gentle downpour of warm water, letting it cascade down his bruised body. The bruises didn't hurt anymore, but his muscles were stiff and achy, making standing in the small stall tiring. Still, he didn't want to leave. He'd spent over a week in bed and barely remembered what it was like to be vertical. The shower, a compromise from Bones, was the only luxury he'd been granted since returning to Earth. Streams of water trailed down his back and he ducked his head, rounding his shoulders. His belly pulled tight, sending a sharp pinch into his chest. Bracing himself with his hands against the smooth walls, he tried to find a more comfortable position, but knew he should exit the shower. His legs were beginning to shake from fatigue and he could feel the thunder of his pulse racing through his neck, launching a deep, painful rhythm in the back of his head.

He let out a pent-up breath and hit the off control. For a long time he stood in the steam-filled room, breathing in the moist air and waiting for his pulse to settle. It didn't, so he stepped out of the stall into the cramped room that served as a bathroom. There were no mirrors in the room and he wondered if that was by design. He'd gotten a glimpse of his body as he'd shed the loose-fitting gown the nurses had given him. The bruises looked god-awful. As if that wasn't bad enough, his body was tattooed with incisions and puncture marks from medical procedures. He looked like a medical experiment gone bad.

He sat down heavily on the padded stool near the wall and rested his spine against the wall's hard, cool surface. Closing his eyes, he simply sat there until the coolness penetrated his flesh. He shivered. It took him several minutes to dress, his muscles pulling in protest as he crawled into a pair of light gray colored bottoms and a short-sleeved tunic the nurses had left for him. As he stepped out into the main room, he paused. The bed had been made with fresh linens and the IV bags, which had become as much a part of the décor as the monitor display, were thankfully gone. His treatment had ended last night, leaving him free of the tangle of lines.

With that new freedom, he dreaded going back to the bed. Lying prone and staring at the nondescript ceiling reminded him of his boyhood. He'd lie in bed for hours at night, staring at the ceiling and trying to block the sounds of Frank drinking and cursing outside on the porch, waiting for his mother to return, waiting for Sam, waiting….

He paced to the other side of the room, his bare feet cold on the floor and sending shivers up his body. When he had decided to join the Academy, he had put all his energy into finishing early. Pike had told him he could have his own ship within eight years, but he knew he would be captain before he was thirty, and that he'd excel at the Academy. He'd told Bones the Academy would give him a commendation for rigging the Kobayashi Maru. But he hadn't gotten a commendation-he'd gotten put on academic suspension from the Academy, expelled from the _Enterprise_ for mutiny, marooned and now quarantined. Hell, the only way he'd become captain was by an old fashioned cut-throat promotion. Some legend.

The sound of the doors hissing open interrupted his thoughts. He kept his back turned to the door, rooted in place. If one more person stuck one more thing into his body—

"You should be resting," Bones said.

"I've been resting," he replied without turning around. His headache was back in full swing, twisting the muscles at the back of his neck. "There's nothing else to do. It's not like I have visitors to entertain."

Bones sighed heavily. "Jim—"

"I know what's going on Bones," he said sternly. A wave of dizziness passed through him. "I know why I'm here."

"Jim, you get paranoid when you have a fever," Bones said. "No one's visiting you because you're in quarantine, and you're in quarantine because you're _sick_."

He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, trying to ease the ache that was setting his head on fire. Who would visit him anyway? The upper classmen hated him because he had accomplished in twelve months what they had struggled to do in three years. The junior classmen were afraid of him and saw him as a threat. His peers…his peers ignored him. Command thought of him as irresponsible and a risk.

"Come on," Bones said gently. "You need to sit down."

"I don't want to sit down." He still wouldn't turn around, but he was trembling slightly from fatigue and knew Bones had seen, as well. He took a few uncertain steps away from Bones. His vision began to cloud. "Where's Pike?"

"He's recovering…like you're supposed to be doing." Bones stepped closer and attached a firm hand to his arm. "You've been on your feet long enough."

He hated being sick. He hated hospitals and doctors. He hated Nero for coming through the black hole and changing his life to this hot mess. Bones' hand tightened on his bicep and he realized he was swaying. He hated that everything had been taken away from him, and that the Vulcans were screaming in his mind as if he somehow had something to do with their deaths. Darkness crowded in on his vision. Suddenly, Bones was in front of him, scowling and gripping his arms. _Why didn't you stand up for me, Bones? Why did you let him maroon me?_

His head pounded and then he was moving, the room blurry and distorted. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed and Bones was easing him to lie down. The monitor sprang to life, setting Jim's teeth on edge. It took a long moment before his vision cleared and he lay watching as Bones studied the monitor, one hand still on Jim's arm. He wasn't sure if the touch was for comfort or security. The hazel eyes dropped down to meet his.

"Better?"

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting his body sink into the soft pad beneath him. God, his head hurt. When he opened his eyes again, Bones was still watching him with an expression that was a strange combination of sympathy and regret.

"I didn't _let_ him maroon you, Jim. I had no choice in the matter."

Shit. He hadn't realized he'd said anything aloud. But since Bones had heard it, he replied, "You thought I was wrong."

"I did."

"So did everybody else. That's why I'm here."

Bones let out a short breath. "Jim, nobody invents a virus to keep one cadet in quarantine. Even you can't believe Starfleet is that devious."

That was true, but he also didn't think Starfleet was working real hard to get him out of quarantine. He shivered suddenly, hating the way his body betrayed him. "Why didn't Pike get sick?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out." Bones pulled the light-weight blanket up to cover him and retrieved a small scanner from his pocket. "You responded well to the last treatment. We're close. We just need to find out what's causing your fever. The ID doctors think they have it isolated, but need to be sure. We just need to wait."

Bones pressed the small scanner to his chest, above his heart.

"I'm sick of waiting. I don't even know what's going on outside of this room. You won't tell me anything about Pike or the _Enterprise_."

"Jim, I don't know anything about the _Enterprise_. And as for Pike, I already told you, he's recovering." Bones studied the scan on the overhead monitor.

"Is he here?"

Bones' attention was the display. "At the Center? No, he's been released."

"Did he ask about me?" He hated himself for voicing the question.

Bones looked down from the monitor, his expression soft. "Yes, he did. And so did Spock. So have a lot of people."

"Spock asked about me?"

Bones removed the small scanner. "I think he feels guilty. If Vulcans feel guilty. Damned if I know what goes on in that Vulcan head. The man lost his mother. Hell, he lost his entire planet and barely blinked an eye."

"He blinked," Jim said quietly. He didn't understand Spock, either, but he kept hearing the words the older Spock had said to him when they first met: _I have been and always shall be your friend_. Were they so different in this timeline that they would hate each other? Had he made a mess of things with Spock by altering the Kobayashi Maru and challenging his command to the point of mutiny? He put a hand to his temple, feeling the pulsing beneath his fingers.

"Another headache?" Bones asked with concern.

"They're getting better," he lied. Suddenly, he felt exhausted, his eyelids pulling down. He let his hand drop back onto the bed. "Do you think I did the right thing, Bones?"

"Yeah, kid. I think you did the right thing."


	6. Chapter 6

**CDC**

"What do you mean, it's not a virus?" McCoy asked, scowling down Izidd, the Infectious Disease doctor who had been assigned to Kirk. He stood toe-to-toe in a cramped office on the fourth floor of Starfleet Medical Center.

"It was difficult to see," Izidd said. He was as tall as McCoy, with a nervous habit of bobbing his head. "But it's definitely not a virus."

McCoy took a measured breath. He'd been summoned to Izidd's office before his alarm sounded. He'd had half a cup of coffee and two patients to release before rounds began, when he'd been told Komack wanted to see him. He had little patience for the overly animated doctor. He pulled his spine straight. "Then what is it?"

"It's a bacterium. The cells are surprisingly similar to a virus. That's why we couldn't identify it. It acted like a virus. We had to strip it down to see what it really was. Clever really. I've never seen anything like it before."

McCoy scowled. "Is it artificial?"

"No way to tell. Unless you ask the Romulans."

He ignored the man's weak attempt at humor. "Is it contagious?"

"Any bacteria can be contagious. It's blood-born, that's for certain. Someone would need to be exposed to his blood to catch it."

Kettrig's concern was that the Romulans had used Jim as an incubator to let loose a fatal virus on Earth and the Federation. But McCoy had disputed that theory because Pike and Spock had not been infected. Pike had been on the ship far longer than Jim. It would be more logical to use Pike as the carrier, not Jim. Not to mention the fact that Nero was more focused on destroying Earth with the red matter than a plague. He had always believed the disease/illness was isolated to Jim and his temperamental physiology. If what Izidd was saying was true, then Jim was one step closer to being released from quarantine. "You're sure about this?"

"Very."

Not contagious. He let the words sink in. "So what's your recommendation? How do we kill this bacterium?"

"We've already done some of that with our treatments. They were surprisingly effective, considering we were attacking something else entirely. But the bacterium doesn't appear to have a very long life. Unlike most bacteria, it's not thriving in its host."

"Jim still has a fever." He pointed out.

"I know." The head bobbing increased. Izidd shuffled his feet and in the process stepped back slightly. "This is a Romulan bacterium. For all we know, it's common and harmless to Romulans like probiotics are to humans. We don't know enough about Romulan physiology to know differently. But we can't afford to take any chances. I suggest we micro-filter his blood."

McCoy stared at the man as if he hadn't heard right. What the doctor was suggesting was radical and dangerous. It was a difficult procedure on any human, but Jim was already weakened from surgery and fighting the bacterium. "Are you serious? You just said it's not thriving. What about a different class of antibiotics?"

"Unfortunately this bacterium is resistant to known antibiotics. That's why the patient hasn't responded to them."

Izidd's use of the word 'patient' when describing Jim angered him. "It's dangerous."

"So is this bacterium. The cells in his blood are quite persistent."

In the twenty-first century, they used to call them sleeper cells – bacteria that were resistant to antibiotics. The bacterium would go dormant – not propagating or growing, just surviving. Drug-resistant bacteria had become a world epidemic by the mid-twenty-first century, until a small French research company had discovered a way of killing the cells. Unfortunately, the patient fatality rate was high. Since then, the Vulcans had developed a way of isolating the dormant cells and filtering them from the blood. The process was successful for most humanoid species, but was extremely taxing for humans.

"Kirk's on the command track, isn't he?" Izidd asked.

McCoy narrowed his eyes. Izidd, for all his annoying mannerisms, was an excellent research doctor and probably one of the best ID physicians on Earth. He knew the man had read Jim's file, and knew the answer to the question he asked. McCoy also knew _why _he asked. Jim couldn't be certified for command by medical if the dormant bacterium remained in his body. The health certification on a starship was an aggressive process, for obvious reasons. One afflicted person could wipe out an entire crew. If they didn't do the procedure, Jim would lose his only chance at command.

"Even if he manages to recover now, eventually it'll make him sick again," Izidd said, reminding him that dormant cells don't stay dormant forever. When the conditions were right, they reactivated. And next time, Jim might not be so lucky.

In the end, they decided on a treatment plan that included filtering Jim's blood. McCoy presented his report to Kettrig who agreed to the procedure, but wasn't willing to release Jim from quarantine until his blood showed clean. His official medical record would reflect a bacterial infection of unknown origin. Then: case closed. Jim would be moved back into the population, so to speak-crisis averted. Except the procedure to filter Jim's blood posed its own risks. It was up to McCoy to explain this to Jim.

* * *

Jim moved restlessly around his room, feeling claustrophobic. He hadn't seen Bones since yesterday, and the only company he'd had were nurses who administered meds to him in a hypo, asked politely if there was anything else they could do for him and told him, no, he wasn't allowed to leave. He had talked one of the nurses into lifting the window filter so that he might see out. The view was so restricted he could see only a hint of greenery and nothing more. It was summer, and a nurse told him that the Academy was still on break after the recent attack on Earth.

He could be in a bar or touring the coast on a motorbike, but instead he was in the one place he hated more than Iowa.

He put a hand to the back of his neck. His head hurt and he still had a fever that caused his body to ache. The hot and cold flashes were as annoying as the persistent chills and the thin layer of perspiration that had his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. At least the IVs had been removed and he was no longer on a leash, though he hardly felt the freedom within the small confines of the room.

He let out a pent-up breath and reluctantly lay on the bed, feeling his spine pop as he settled onto the mattress. What he wouldn't give to be free-falling onto that drill right now – his stomach tight with anticipation, waiting for the moment when his feet made contact with something solid. He felt a faint pull in his abdomen. Out of habit, he rested his hands on his belly to protect and comfort his injury. The external incision was almost healed, leaving only a thin pink line that stretched across his middle. He hated the sight of it. Head pounding and slightly dizzy, he closed his eyes.

He was reluctant to admit to himself that he was lonely and feeling a little cheated, though he'd never been one to seek comfort when he was sick. It wasn't as if his mother had been around when he was a baby. The closest thing he'd had to mothering was Sam, who would sit by his bedside when he was sick, trying to get him to eat or holding his hand through shivering fits of fever.

He pushed the memory aside and drew a shuddering breath.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that his list of friends was alarmingly short, if two could be called a list. There were many acquaintances – classmates with whom he shared a common interest. A few he'd categorize as drinking buddies. And of course there were women he'd charmed into his bed…or theirs. He'd never lacked sexual companionship, even as a gawky teenager. But none had ever stayed. He'd never wanted them to.

The door hissed open and he heard steady, soft footfalls approach his bed. As much as he wanted company, he wasn't desperate enough to strike up a conversation with a nurse. So, he kept his eyes closed.

"You know that the monitor tells me you're not sleeping."

Bones. Of course. He opened his eyes. "What brings you by, Bones?"

The doctor's eyebrows twitched at his sarcasm. "Don't be cranky. I have other patients besides you."

"I'm the one in isolation." He regretted his words when he saw Bones wince. It wasn't Bones' fault he was an insufferable ass that no one wanted to be around. He softened his expression. "Sorry."

Bones nodded.

"New uniform?"

Bones wore a pale colored short-sleeved tunic that made him look as if he should be running triage on a warfront somewhere, barking orders at helpless nurses and cursing at the rampant incompetence around him.

"Beats cadet red."

"How do you rate?" Even on the _Enterprise_, Jim had been kept to a black undershirt – a plain uniform that made him indistinguishable from the other junior crewmembers. He'd been captain of a starship, saved the whole damn planet, and had never worn the gold. Now, maybe he never would.

"Just issued." At the look on his face, Bones' eyebrows rose. "Don't be too impressed. I'm on duty. Patients frown when a doctor enters in a cadet uniform, for obvious reasons."

Bones was already a ranking officer. He'd been recruited as a licensed physician and had entered the Academy as an officer. The red uniform was protocol, and Bones only wore it when he was in classes. Otherwise he was in scrubs or the equally unattractive sterile white uniform of medical. This new tunic made him all too aware that things were changing around him…and he was being left behind.

"I bet they frown anyway," Jim said.

"Not everybody hates doctors like you, Jim."

"That can't be true or you'd have more friends." His tone was light and playful. For a brief moment, it was as if he wasn't lying in a hospital bed and Bones wasn't his doctor; as if everything that had happened the past two weeks from the Kobayashi Maru to Nero's arrival had not occurred, and they were just two cadets trying to figure out how to make it to graduation without killing someone.

Bones' glared. "I've got plenty of friends." Then he took on a clinical look, appraising Jim. "How are you feeling?"

"Bored."

"Jim…."

Sighing, he said, "The same as yesterday."

It wasn't as if he'd been cured suddenly. He hadn't been released from quarantine, but the blood draws had stopped and there seemed to be a shifting with the medical staff, a kind of relief that he couldn't put his finger on. He deduced that he'd been diagnosed with something less threatening than they'd originally thought. Or Command had relented. He said as much to Bones.

"A little of both," Bones said and shifted his weight on his long legs, studying the monitor, which Jim was pretty sure the man had memorized by now.

"The stats aren't going to change just by looking at them." When Bones didn't look away from the monitor, he said, "What's wrong?"

"Aside from you being in Medical?"

"I've been in Medical before, Bones." He moved his head along the pillow, feeling the stiffness in the muscles in his neck. He always knew when Bones was hiding something. "You have to tell me something you don't want to tell me. So, just go ahead and say it."

Bones finally dropped his gaze from the monitor to Jim. The expression on his face slipped into one of professional concern, and for a moment Jim feared the worst. Every fatal scenario his mind had conjured during the past week suddenly resurfaced with a vengeance. He wasn't going to have an opportunity to be a great man, to be captain of a starship, to be Spock's friend and have great adventures together, to be the legend that Romulans a hundred and twenty-five years later would still be talking about. He'd be a cadet who cheated on the Kobayashi Maru and got kicked out of Starfleet. He'd be the kid who died of an unknown alien disease.

Bones frowned and glanced up at the monitor. "Hey, Jim. It's all right." He put a hand to Jim's shoulder and squeezed. "Nobody's dying. Calm down."

Bones' hand on his shoulder comforted him more than he wanted to admit. He forced himself to take a few measured breaths, hating that his heart beat desperately in his chest, hating the monitor that betrayed him. As his heart rate slowed, he found his voice. "You might have opened with that."

Bones gave him a sympathetic look. "Sorry."

Sometimes, at the end of the week, he'd wait for Bones at the clinic and he'd see the older man with a patient, gentle and reassuring, hands soothing away fear and pain. It was a side of Bones he rarely got to see; the doctor had a tough exterior when it came to relating to the people around him. It was why Jim liked him so much, because pissed as hell or worried, people always knew where they stood with Leonard McCoy.

Bones looked at the monitor again and Jim had to wonder what he was looking at all the time. He was about to ask, when Bones directed his attention back to him. Bones spent the next ten minutes explaining what Izidd had discovered, the next recommended treatment, the details of the procedure and the importance of filtering Jim's blood to get him released for space duty.

"That's why I'm still sick." Kirk made it a statement.

"Yes."

"That's good news, right?" So why didn't Bones look happy? Truth be told, he only heard the part about being free. No more CDC or quarantine. No more uncertainty about being a carrier for some Romulan disease. One more procedure and he was out of here. "The virus, or whatever it is, will be gone."

Bones' lips compressed into a tight line. "It's dangerous, Jim…the procedure."

Jim couldn't help but smile. After everything he'd been through the past two weeks, this seemed like a cake walk. "So was jumping onto a fully operational Romulan drill."

Hell, for that matter, so was being born in space in the middle of a firefight. And now that he thought about it, so was being ejected onto a hostile planet without any means of defense. But Bones hadn't warned about those. By comparison, undergoing a complex medical procedure in a state-of-the-art hospital seemed pretty mild.

Bones remained somber. "It's not _my_ first choice. It's taxing on the human body. There are serious risks." He paused, his eyes steady. "And it'll be difficult for you."

There was more to this than Bones was telling him. Doctors did that, had an entire list of everything that could go wrong and all the statistics that went with each, and refused to tell the patient. 'We'll take it one step at a time,' they'd say, as if the patient had no say in any of it. Jim felt his temper stir. Bones was his friend, but he was also a doctor. And Jim had come to distrust doctors. He didn't want to know the particulars about the procedure. The decision had been made, so what was the point of belaboring it? "When do we start?"

The hazel eyes darkened. "I wish you wouldn't be so casual about this."

"I wish you would relax a little about it." Now his head really hurt and he felt a shiver move through him. Shit, he hated this weakness.

"We have to set up the equipment and make a few preparations," Bones said in a serious tone, clearly unhappy with Jim's bravado, but at least he let the shivering go without comment. "In the meantime, you have a visitor."

"I get a visitor?"

"Of sorts. It'll be imagery."

A poor substitute for an actual person standing in the room, but… "Is it Spock?"

Bones looked a little surprised. "No. Admiral Komack."

"Komack?" One of the admirals on the Academy Board. "Why does he want to see me?" Maybe they weren't even going to wait until he got out of the hospital before they kicked him out.

"I have no idea. I'd prefer he wait until after the procedure and you've rested, but he's very insistent."

Of course he was; he was an admiral.

He looked at Bones and knew he couldn't keep the worry from showing. All he could think was: _This is it_. So the waiting was over. They had made their decision and since they couldn't use this Romulan virus or bacteria as an excuse to delay anymore, they would face him, fever notwithstanding, and lay it out.

"It'll be all right, Jim," Bones said. His expression was soft with concern. "They aren't going to expel you as long as you're in medical."

That was a slim comfort.

Bones pressed a button on the side of the bed and waited. Jim couldn't help it, but it felt a little like when he was waiting in a containment cell, not knowing if he was going to be sentenced to jail time or set free with a stern warning. He tried to hold himself still in the bed, but found it impossible. He blamed it on the fever, and not nerves. It was then that he realized what a vulnerable position he was in – half-naked and feverish, lying down. He made to get out of bed – better to meet an admiral on his feet than on his ass – when a three-dimensional image of Komack suddenly appeared at the end of the bed.

He'd only met Komack twice in his years at the academy; once during induction and once during his trial. Neither had been positive experiences for him. Komack was a rather short man with a hefty girth and a balding, round head. There was nothing either special about his appearance or particularly threatening. He could be lost in a small crowd and easily forgotten, and yet he somehow intimidated everyone around him. His expression – or lack of it- would put a Vulcan to shame. Somewhere in the man's life, Jim was certain, he hadn't been loved enough.

"Admiral," Bones said politely. But Jim noticed the slight stiffening of his friend's shoulders.

"Doctor." Komack gave him a brief, but meaningful look that thanked and dismissed him at the same time.

McCoy looked at Jim before nodding to the Admiral. "Just a few minutes, Admiral."

Komack nodded, but it seemed to Jim that the man was going to do whatever he wanted anyway. It must have seemed that way to Bones, too, because he was scowling as he turned and left the room.

"They tell me you're going to recover," Komack said, once they were alone. He didn't sound particularly pleased.

"That's what they tell me, too, sir."

Komack pinned him with an unreadable stare, then his mouth softened just slightly and he grunted. "We keep meeting under less than desirable circumstances, Mr. Kirk."

Mister Kirk, Jim noted, not cadet. His head hurt so much, he wanted to close his eyes and rest for a moment, but instead he moved to sit at the edge of the bed, trying to look relaxed and at ease despite his shivering, aching body.

"A man's at somewhat of a disadvantage lying flat on his back," Komack said. It was not an apology, more an expression of understanding.

"Yes, sir."

Komack looked away from him to examine the small room, as if he just now realized he was standing in a hospital room. "When you were first born, they brought you here, to the Center."

Every muscle in Jim's body tensed. Of all the things he could imagine Komack saying, that was not one of them. When he didn't speak, Komack turned his head to look at him.

"I was midshipman on the _Kelvin_. Did you know that?"

He felt the blood drain from his face, but remained absolutely still. "No, sir."

Although only a hologram image, Komack's presence filled the room. He was every bit as intimidating as his reputation indicated, but Jim wasn't going to give the senior officer the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. He'd learned long ago to bluff and back it up with a good right-cross. Komack wanted something.

"My first deep-space tour." Komack turned away to finish scanning the room. "Isn't it ironic that it was this room where you stayed back then?"

All the heat from Jim's flesh leached out. He felt the walls shrink in closer and he swayed on the edge of the bed, his mind whirling. What game was Komack playing?

"Of course back then it was part of obstetrics. They moved all that to the new building ten years ago." Komack's eyes settled on Jim. "You were in all the vid blasts that day. People thought you were both lucky and tragic."

"Why are you telling me this, sir?" His tone was flat, cold.

"Because your father saved my life. Now I'm going to save yours."


	7. Chapter 7

**Final Rounds**

The doors to Jim's room had barely shut behind McCoy when he swore under his breath. The curse he uttered, if heard, would have gotten him a letter of reprimand and, given that it was directed toward a board Admiral, probably suspended, as well. Still, it felt good saying it aloud. It wasn't enough that Jim had saved Earth and the rest of Starfleet and had contracted a deadly bacterium for his efforts, and soon would have to endure a procedure that might prove to be more dangerous than the bacterium; now some power-hungry Admiral wanted to capitalize on his accomplishments.

He spun on his heels to step down the hall, but was immediately brought up short by a solitary figure anchored in place a few meters in front of him. It seemed everybody wanted a piece of Jim Kirk.

"Commander," he said stiffly. He couldn't help it, he didn't like the Vulcan. "Or is it acting-Captain?"

"Commander will suffice," Spock said, standing with his hands behind his back. He was in the gray uniform of an Academy officer, looking as taciturn and unapproachable as when he stood before the board accusing Jim of unethical behavior. He looked as if he'd been standing there for hours.

"This is a restricted area, Commander."

A slight lifting of a single brow, more like a twitch, was the one point of contrast to the otherwise emotionless features. "You have failed to respond to my last two communications requesting a status on Cadet Kirk."

McCoy looked at him closely. "Why do you care so much what happens to him? You marooned him on a hostile planet, you damn near killed him yourself on the bridge, and you more than likely have gotten him expelled from the Academy. If you were human, I'd say you were feeling guilty."

"Vulcans do not feel guilt."

To which McCoy snorted with as much derision as he could muster. "I'm a busy man, Commander."

"As am I. Your report, Doctor."

He studied the Vulcan for a moment, wondering what it was that Jim saw in the uptight, emotionally constipated Vulcan that warranted his attention. Jim had shown little interest in making friends at the Academy and still less interest in impressing anyone – including his commanders. Except, of course, for Pike. So, why, he wondered, did Jim seem so concerned with what Spock thought of him? "He's been categorized as having a level II bacterial infection."

"Then the contagion is minimal."

For someone who was not a medical doctor, the Vulcan had a lot of opinions. "He's still in quarantine."

"Obviously. His prognosis?"

"Is in my report to the Surgeon General."

"I am aware of the official report, Doctor, and the Surgeon General's position regarding Kirk's condition. What I am asking for is your prognosis as his physician."

He didn't say it, but McCoy could almost hear the unspoken _and_ _his friend_. But what did the Vulcan know of friendship, or personal commitment? Spock had been quick to abandon Pike, when Jim had been unbending, risking his own life, even the mission, to bring the Captain back. Would Spock ever choose to bend the rules out of that kind of personal loyalty? McCoy wanted to tell the Commander that it was going to be difficult for him to work with Kirk, much less be friends with him, if all he held sacred were unbendable rules. But then again, who was McCoy to advise anybody about what it meant to be friends with Jim. Despite what he had said to Jim, McCoy had _let Spock maroon him…_.

"Speaking as his physician," McCoy said, stressing the last word, "he should make a full recovery."

Spock tilted his head slightly, seeming to consider what McCoy had said, then nodded. "May I see him?"

"No." He said it too quickly and with too much emotion behind it, as if it were a declaration rather than a response. The Vulcan heard it, too, because his sharp eyebrows rose a few millimeters. Technically speaking, Spock could make a visit to Jim without violating the quarantine regulations for a level II, but he saw no reason to grant the request. "He needs his rest for this procedure," McCoy continued. "Besides, Admiral Komack is in there. One visitor from the Academy senior staff is enough for one day."

"I had not intended for my visit to be official. I merely wish to speak to him."

"About what?" McCoy studied the strange-hued skin, pulled too tightly across the sharp features, the impassive features that could hide a lethal turn of mind.

"It is of a personal nature."

McCoy scowled. The Vulcan was a contradiction within a puzzle, which made a kind of twisted sense. Half human, half Vulcan – emotion versus logic, instinct versus discipline. "You're going through with your charge of unethical behavior."

"I would be remiss in my duties as a Starfleet officer and an Academy instructor if I did not."

"And you don't want to be remiss." McCoy tone was cutting. Everything Jim had done to save Earth and everything Spock had experienced with the loss of his mother, his planet, and the bastard was still going to file his charges.

"I have a duty."

"Damn your duty!" McCoy hissed, at the end of his tether. "That man in there saved Earth, saved Pike and the Federation by breaking the rules. You should be recommending him for a goddamn medal."

"It is not for me to—"

"Bullshit! You've got enough pull in the Academy to make things right if you wanted to." His temper was in full flare now and he forgot that he was speaking to a senior officer. "He deserves a hell of a lot better than to be marooned, disregarded and penalized."

With that, he pushed past the Vulcan, contempt in the ramrod-straight line of his back.

"I saw no other option, but to expel him." Spock's calm words came from behind him, clear and unapologetic.

McCoy stopped and looked back. Despite the lack of emotion in Spock's words, the Vulcan's face revealed something else entirely – Confusion? Regret? Sorrow?

McCoy met his eyes. "You did what you thought was right. So did Jim. Leave it at that. And drop the damn charges."

* * *

Jim's room was crowded, making the once spacious room feel claustrophobic. McCoy stood next to the bed, which had been pulled away from the wall to accommodate the mass of equipment they had brought in to filter Jim's blood. There were two vital pieces of equipment that had been placed at the head of the bed on either side: one to filter the blood coming out of Jim and one to return it. In addition to those monstrosities, there was emergency equipment near the far wall on standby; extra monitoring that would provide detailed analyses on Jim's blood, vitals, cellular oxygen and calcium levels, and proteins, as well as chemical panels and organ-function. It was too much for McCoy to monitor independently, so there were three other people in the room: Sari, a tech who specialized in the blood filtering process; Rutgar, an epidemiologist who was the Center's expert on this procedure; and a nurse on standby.

McCoy surveyed the medical staff once more. He'd spent more than three hours going over the procedure with them and another hour making certain they were well familiar with Jim's medical file, including details on his allergies and recent heart damage. If something went wrong, he wanted these people to be well-prepared. Sari waited for his signal. She was a petite woman who looked dwarfed next to the equipment, but her eyes were sharp and her expression kind. He nodded to her and took a step toward the bed.

As the equipment had been entering Jim's room, McCoy had spent a considerable amount of time trying to prepare him for the procedure. They had flushed Jim's system with as much saline as they could. He had just finished the last unit, and McCoy had left the catheter inserted into his right hand for future use. One thing he had learned about the procedure: you had to react quickly to whatever went wrong.

The data available on human patients who underwent the microfluidic procedure was sketchy at best. Not many humans had undergone the procedure. While McCoy was able research the physical results such as blood chemistry and organ health, information on patient care was mixed and incomplete. The data only showed that patients suffered considerable stress that adversely effected the entire respiration and cardiovascular system. The issue, Rutgar had explained, was not the withdrawing of the blood, but rather the recirculation of it back into the patient that caused the most concern.

"It's an accelerated process, Dr. McCoy," Rutgar had said. "That is its own concern on the human body, but the blood being transfused has been micro-filtered, stripping out vital elements. It really depends on how much of this bacterium is in his blood and how well Jim holds up."

There were too many unknowns for McCoy's comfort. But he wiped all that from his face as he looked at Jim who stared up at him as he approached the bed, which had been lowered so Jim lay flat. The white thermal sheet had been drawn up to his shoulders to keep him warm. Despite the fact that they had increased the room temperature for the procedure, Jim still shivered occasionally from fever. The startling blue eyes were unusually clear as they gazed at him. "Are you ready?"

Jim nodded. He was naked beneath the thin fabric to give the medical personnel as much access to his body as they needed. They would make every attempt to keep him as covered as possible while still accommodating the procedure.

McCoy pulled up a stool and rolled it close to the edge of the bed so that he was near Jim's torso.

"Can I sit up?" Jim asked.

McCoy knew how much Jim hated being flat on his back when others were standing over him, but he needed to keep Jim prone to control his vitals. "Sorry, no. The amount of blood we'll be filtering will cause dizziness and respiratory issues. I can minimize the effects by having you lay flat." He looked closely at Jim. "We talked about this, remember?"

Jim nodded and rolled his head along the thin pillow to eye Sari. He had been introduced to the team and their perspective roles, but McCoy could see his uneasiness with the amount of attention focused on him, not to mention the equipment that dominated the room. No one missed the slight elevation in his heart rate.

"Jim," he said softly, waiting for the young man to turn toward him. "I want you to focus on me. I'll be right here during the entire process."

"I know."

McCoy held his gaze for a moment longer than gave the signal to Sari and Rutgar to begin. Rutgar was of average height and had a surprisingly muscular build for a physician. His hair was more auburn than brown, cut close to meet Starfleet regulation. What set him apart was his thin, sand-colored eyebrows that drew into a straight line above his grey eyes, making him appear perpetually irritated. Still, he smiled as he stepped to the edge of the bed and drew down the sheet to expose Jim's torso. While he administered a local anesthetic just below Jim's ribs on the left side, McCoy kept a close watch on Jim for signs of stress or pain.

"We're going to insert a fairly large catheter just below your ribs, Jim," Rutgar explained. His voice was gentle and in a pleasing tone. "I've numbed your skin and muscles, but you may feel the pressure and movement of the catheter. Some patients find this uncomfortable, but it's important that you remain still until I capture the line. Once the line is in place, you shouldn't feel it."

Jim nodded, darting an uncertain look at McCoy.

"This is what will filter your blood," McCoy said. Though he'd explained it all to Jim earlier, it was important to explain what was happening as they treated him. "Another line will be inserted into your femoral artery for the return blood."

The microfluidic equipment behind the bed made a soft humming sound as Sari began a startup. Rutgar's hands were steady and sure as they made a simple incision below the arch of Jim's ribs. The nurse, whose name McCoy had forgotten, assisted as Rutgar fed the line through the small incision.

McCoy's gaze volleyed from Rutgar to Jim's face, equally unsure of both. While Rutgar was more than competent, McCoy didn't like another physician cutting into Jim. As Rutgar fed the line through the narrow opening, Jim frowned, his face tensing.

McCoy put a hand on Jim's bare shoulder. "Okay?"

"Yeah." His voice was tight as he stared at the ceiling. Then he sucked in his breath sharply and closed his eyes.

"We've got caption," Rutgar said and secured the line to Jim's skin to keep it from moving. "Don't hold your breath, Jim. Keep breathing through it. You'll get used to the feel of the line."

That's when McCoy realized he'd also been holding his breath, too. A dozen things could go wrong inserting and attaching the line and all of them were life-threatening. The slender line was sophisticated and intuitive, attaching to the interior vena cava. One slip of the clamp, left unchecked, and Jim would bleed to death in under a minute. Behind the bed, the equipment beeped and hummed as the new information was relayed to the computer.

McCoy studied the monitor, watching the sat and pressure levels. He left Sari and Rutgar to supervise the outputs. His job as primary physician was to the health of his patient. He could stop the treatment at any time he felt Jim's life in danger. Until that time, he let Rutgar perform the procedure.

"You did well, Jim," Rutgar said, momentarily placing a hand on Jim's other shoulder. "One more and we can start."

Jim opened his eyes and McCoy could see the tension loosen around his mouth. The frown remained in place. McCoy kept his hand on Jim's shoulder as Rutgar repositioned to insert the femoral line. Jim took a few cautious breaths.

"Feel okay?" McCoy asked, concentrating on Jim's face.

"Feels strange. But it doesn't hurt."

"That's good." The line itself was a nuisance, as any foreign body tucked under one's ribs might be, but it would not be the source of Jim's discomfort. That would come when they began transfusing his blood.

Rutgar had bared Jim's right hip and thigh and repeated the procedure he'd done at Jim's chest, inserting a line into his femoral artery. The line was long enough to stretch back to Sari who attached it to the adjacent equipment. It would return the filtered blood back into him. Earlier, a nurse had inserted a urinary catheter to monitor kidney output and chemistry. That thin line snaked across Jim's thigh to a container attached beneath the bio-bed.

When he had finished, Rutgar double checked the lines, walking to the other side of the bed. Satisfied, he retrieved four small monitoring devices from a tray. They were round and no larger than ten millimeters across. He attached two of them to Jim's chest. McCoy could see the computer begin to relay information as the tiny devices began sending vital information through.

Jim looked at McCoy questioningly.

"They're additional monitoring," he explained. "They can capture information at a cellular level, among other things."

Another was attached to Jim's abdomen and the final one at the small of his back. That complete, Rutgar conferred with Sari briefly before nodding to McCoy.

They were ready to begin.

* * *

Jim focused on the ceiling, trying his best to ignore Bones who hovered less than a meter away. He tried to lie still beneath the thin sheet, as he'd been instructed, but the fever was causing an ache that had settled deep into his muscles, making stillness almost impossible. Each time he moved, Bones placed a firm hand on him. He felt a little like an insect that was about to be pinned.

He took a halting breath, feeling the pull of the line beneath his ribs. This was worth it, he reminded himself. This was his way back into the Academy.

"Get clearance from medical and I'll get your clearance from the Academy Board," Komack had promised. "The rest is up to you."

Which meant: Don't fuck it up this time. But he hadn't fucked it up the first time. He'd been right to go after Nero – no matter the method. It was the results that mattered. Wasn't it? Whatever pull Komack had, Jim hoped it was enough. As it turned out, he didn't have many friends to stand in his corner, and there were more than a couple of people who'd like to see him kicked out.

A deep throbbing in his head seemed only to amplify with the glare of the ceiling lights. Christ, he thought, do they have put a goddamn spot light on me. He closed his eyes, feeling exposed and studied. He'd never look at entomology the same again.

"Everything okay?" Bones asked.

"Peachy," he said without opening his eyes. It was the third time Bones had asked him that question. What did the man expect him to say? He was naked and immobilized with tubes penetrating him and three complete strangers watching his blood be siphoned by a sophisticated machine only a handful of people in the galaxy could run. If that wasn't enough to make him anxious, there was the fact that his entire future was riding on the success of this procedure.

He heard Bones sigh. "This procedure is going to take time, Jim. We can't filter all your blood at once. It's done in cycles, but at an accelerated rate. It's very important that you tell me if you feel strong pain or excessive dizziness. Anything out of the ordinary."

How was he supposed to know what was normal and what wasn't? Ever since he had returned from the _Narada,_ he'd felt like shit. Furthermore, he'd never had his blood vacuumed out of him then pumped back in. He could feel the ache in his right thigh as blood was forced into his artery. They had warned him that the accelerated process would be uncomfortable. Nobody had said he would feel like an orange being squeezed.

With all the monitoring equipment he'd been attached to, it was difficult for Jim to think that he'd have to say anything about what was happening to his body. He was naked beneath the sheet and Bones could see the slightest shiver and twitch. Despite his irritation at the circumstances, he said, "The lights hurt my eyes."

He could see the lights dim from behind his closed lids. He cautiously opened his eyes, his head still pounding.

"Better?" Bones asked.

He nodded. The equipment buzzed like a plague of locusts that had just descended on him. He hadn't really noticed before, but suddenly the sound seemed to take up residence in his brain, sending sharp shards of pain into the back of his eyes. It felt like when the Vulcans had died. The thought made him shiver. He raised a hand to rub his eyes and it was immediately caught by Bones.

"Try to stay still," Bones gently reminded, returning his hand to the side of the bed.

How was he supposed to stay still when the damn machine was pumping blood out of him faster than his heartbeat and the ache in his leg was stretching into his groin? His balls felt like they were in a vice-grip. And his head…. Fuck the Vulcans and their lack of emotions: they were screaming again.

"There will be some discomfort when the blood is returned," Rutgar had explained. "The blood will be micro-filtered, so certain elements may cause your organs and cells to react. We'll handle that as needed."

He didn't know what that meant, but the lines within him beginning to feel alive…and hungry.

"Jim, what's wrong?" Bones scowled down at him.

"Headache." His tongue struggled to form the word as if a vise had been clamped to the back of his throat.

"Jim?"

White spots danced in his vision.

Voices conversed and he drifted as the stars fell down around him, his body a heavy weight that fastened him to the bed. He could sink into the soft pad of the bed, he thought, sink until he disappeared. That would solve all his problems. He'd return to space, to the stars. He and Komack would be even: nothing promised, nothing owed. Suddenly his vision cleared and he saw Bones' worried face above him, a deep scowl set above the hazel eyes.

"Take a deep breath, Jim," Bones commanded strongly.

Without considering it, he obediently drew in a lungful of air and felt the pull of the line buried deep within his chest, a tiny pinch that reverberated into his ribs.

"Take another."

He didn't like the feel of the line as his chest moved, the tiny clamp with its sharp teeth sinking into his artery, greedily taking his blood. Why did they want so much from him? Son of the hero, George Kirk….

"Jim." Bones' voice was demanding and loud. "I need you to take another breath. Come on. Stay with me."

_I'm with you._ Where else would he be? It took some effort, but he filled his lungs and quickly released the breath, the line catching sharply as it pressed against his ribs. Instinctively, he shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. Instantly, both of Bones' hands were on his chest, holding him steady.

"Moving around will make it worse," Bones said. "You have to stay still and keep the clamp steady. Are you in pain?"

Pain? There was a peculiar sensation running through his body he couldn't put a word to, but it felt ominous and foreboding like the sounds of the Vulcans crying out. No, not crying out, _reaching_ out – thousands of them, pressing down—

"Jim, talk to me."

— on his chest, compressing his ribs. They didn't want him to breathe. Well, to hell with them. He filled his lungs, pushing against their demanding pressure and trying to satisfy his need for oxygen.

"Dizzy." He managed to get the word out. His head was spinning and the tiny shards were working their way into his eyes, blurring his vision.

"Your oxygen saturation dropped suddenly," Bones explained. "We've increased the hemoglobin in your blood, but you need to concentrate on your breathing."

He couldn't see Bones clearly, just a disembodied, fuzzy image in white floating somewhere above him. He wanted to see his friend, but all he felt was the Vulcans who had become, suddenly, very quiet.

"Jim, did you hear me?"

"I heard. Breathe." He thought he spoke in standard, but the words were Vulcan, twisting on his tongue. His voice sounded distant and weak as if it had come from far away. A shiver tore through him. His head hurt and the pain was travelling down the back of his neck into his spine, gnawing its way through his body. A hand pressed to his forehead.

"Jim, you're speaking Vulcan." Bones said. "Speak standard. Did you hear me?"

"Yes. Breathe." He forced another lungful of air into his burning lungs, his muscles and ribs grating against the line that snaked into him. He blinked against the blurriness and tried unsuccessfully not to struggle against the pressure and tightness in his chest.

"Don't force your breaths so much," Bones said. "Be easy about it. Careful, steady breaths. That's it. In and out. In and out."

Bones' voice was like a tonic to him, penetrating his muddled thoughts. It took a tremendous effort, but he focused on what Bones was saying, breathing in synch. After a few measured breaths, his vision began to clear, enough so that he could see the concerned face of his friend staring down at him.

"You're doing fine," Bones said, keeping his hand pressed firmly to Jim's forehead.

An alarm sounded sharply and was immediately silenced.

His head pounded fiercely and the pain that had been travelling down his spine settled in the small of his back, radiating a burning that crept toward his belly. "How long?"

It was so difficult to speak and his voice sounded hoarse and unrecognizable to his ears, fighting to be heard among the other sounds in the room.

"Only an hour."

He shivered again and the tremors ignited the pain. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaws against it. The drone and buzz of the equipment began to sound like a hungry animal, impatient for its meal.

"Keep breathing, Jim," Bones said. "I don't want to put a mask on you."

He didn't care about the mask or his breathing. He wanted out. Every instinct within him urged him to move, to fight. He shifted abruptly and an alarm sounded again. A set of hands, not Bones', pressed to his hip, holding him steady.

"I know you're uncomfortable," Bones said, his voice stern, yet compassionate, "but you have to hold still."

"Pressing," he said, forcing the word out and opening his eyes.

Bones frowned. "What's pressing?"

Everything, he wanted to say, but he couldn't make his tongue to form the word. A buzzing filled his head as the pain in his middle slowly began to spread out. Every ounce of warmth was suddenly leached from him, leaving him shaking. His muscles burned. His skin felt as if it were being singed. But the real pain came from inside, beneath the taut muscles.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat seized with a strangled groan.

"Jim, what is it?" Bones' eyes were dark beneath his scowl.

He was being crushed from the inside out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Adaptation**

Time stopped in the quarantine room, as Dezi, the unfortunate nurse assisting in the procedure, slowly released the breath she'd been holding. She took a few steps away from the bed, her head pounding with tension. She turned away from the shivering, pale figure, wondering when his pain would ease. The almost inhuman sounds that Jim Kirk made were unsettling, taking a toll on her, and she couldn't begin to imagine what such pain was doing to him. Her throat ached as much from suppressing her emotions as from clenching her jaw. Nothing in her twenty years of nursing had prepared her for this.

"I know. I know," McCoy soothed. He stood over the young man's writhing body, one hand anchoring the feverish head to the pillow, the other splayed across his flat abdomen. McCoy had been constant in his vigil, unwavering in his attention, and completely immovable in his determination. "A few more minutes and you can rest. You can do this, Jim."

He'd been saying that for the past ten minutes, and Dezi wondered if the man on the bed believed him any more than she did. Still, she looked up at the time counter to determine when the session would end. Each aching second passed with interminable slowness, stretched out by Kirk's guttural sounds of suffering. Kirk had long since stopped replying to McCoy's words, and she didn't know if the young man now understood anything McCoy said. His face was a deathly shade of white, his eyes sunken and bright with fever, at times wild with pain. It was difficult for her to remember that just hours earlier he'd been alert and defiant, demanding to be released.

"Nurse," McCoy said sternly. He never took his eyes from Kirk.

"Doctor?"

"Get me another warm cloth. Make it two."

"Yes, Doctor." She moved to comply without hesitation, her legs carrying her with quick strides to the console at the end of the room. The distance from the bed did little to mute the sounds of pain Kirk was making, but she felt a very brief sense of relief at the reprieve of having to witness it. She retrieved the fresh warm cloths and returned to the bed, handing them to McCoy.

She watched as McCoy gently soothed a cloth across Kirk's fevered skin. The cloth was treated with a mild topical analgesic that seemed to ease some of Kirk's sensitivity. Rigors had become more pronounced in the past half hour; the strain on his muscles was altering his chemical balance. Rutgar had begun an IV of supplements, but even she could see that Kirk's organs were being adversely affected by the transfusion, and the IV was having little effect.

An alarm sounded and McCoy swore under his breath as he tossed the cloth aside. Both of them reached for the oxygen mask, the doctor's fingers capturing it before her own. She was by his side before she even realized that she'd moved, years of training kicking in automatically.

McCoy expertly slid the mask over Kirk's nose and mouth.

"It's okay. Easy, Jim."

She liked the sound of McCoy's voice when he spoke to Kirk. It was smooth and rich – a strange cross between how a parent would speak to a hurt child and how a lover would soothe and reassure. Kirk's intensely blue eyes searched McCoy's face and a low groan filled the mask. McCoy's hand smoothed the blond hair, now darkened and damp with sweat. There was something in the gesture, so intimate and personal, that she shifted her gaze from her patient to McCoy. His lips were tightly compressed and his eyes were dark with emotion. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but his hands were gentle, his voice compassionate. The two men were more than doctor/patient, she realized. They were close friends.

A chime sounded; the one they had all been waiting for.

Rutgar, who had been hovering on the opposite side of the bed, leaned over Kirk and checked the catheter in his chest. His fingers barely skimmed the line before they came to rest, spreading over Kirk's shivering ribs. "You're doing great. We're going to reset before we start again," he told Kirk. "You can rest for a while."

Kirk closed his eyes. His entire body seemed to deflate into bonelessness, shivering and sweating, his misery apparent.

McCoy held the oxygen mask in place and looked up at the monitor, scowling. He turned an unblinking gaze to Rutgar who seemed to guess exactly what McCoy was going to say.

"We'll introduce Dextronomin for his kidneys," Rutgar said. "And increase the plasma and hemoglobin again. That should balance things a bit."

McCoy's expression remained unchanged and challenging. Dezi shifted her weight from one leg to the other, feeling the tension between the two men. McCoy took a moment to glance at Kirk, then removed the mask to step away from the bed. It was the first time he had left Kirk's side, and the young man clearly sensed his absence. Opening his eyes, he searched for the familiar presence, too weak to even move his head.

Dezi stepped forward as McCoy and Rutgar moved off to confer. Now standing next to Kirk in the spot McCoy had occupied, she looked down at him and tentatively touched his hair. His eyes were incredibly blue and intense in a disconcerting way, as if he could look straight into her and see all her secrets, all her shortcomings, all her accomplishments. He was wicked smart, it was said, genius level, and for the first time since hearing about the man who had saved Earth, she actually believed it.

"Can I get you some water?" she asked. It was the only thing she could think to offer him.

"No," he said weakly.

In the background she heard Rutgar and McCoy arguing in hushed, angry tones. She could make out most of the words.

"We knew the risks going in," Rutgar was saying. "We're over sixty percent complete. We can't stop now."

"His liver and kidneys can't take this level of stress," McCoy said. "Not to mention what it's doing to his respiratory system and heart. His blood pressure is going through the goddamn roof."

Dezi concentrated on Kirk and tried to tune out the doctors, who continued their heated discussion.

Unfortunately, Kirk had also heard. "Not too happy," Kirk muttered.

She could see it was an effort for him to speak, to breathe. She pulled up the warming blanket, hoping it would offer some comfort. "You're in good hands. The best. Try to rest now."

She checked the IV fluids that were replenishing what the microfiltration was removing. It was unnatural to scrub blood to this degree. What they were putting back into Kirk was a watered down version of the healthy, life-sustaining blood that he needed. This was what made the procedure so dangerous and painful. When she looked down, she discovered Kirk was still staring at her.

"You really need to rest," she said again. The break wasn't going to be near long enough for him, and the pain would resume too soon.

"What's your name?" he asked. The last word faded to a whisper.

"Dezi."

"I was going…to guess…Dezi."

She smiled. "Were you?"

He closed his eyes suddenly, his mouth tightening with the pain. She rested her hand on top of the blanket. His skin was so pale and stretched thin across his young face. After a minute, he opened his eyes again.

"It's okay," he said softly.

She realized she must have allowed her fear to show. She quickly recovered. "You're not supposed to be comforting me. That's my job."

"Mm."

"Nurse." McCoy's voice came, his tone disapproving.

He had returned to the bed and she quickly stepped aside for him. He looked at Kirk. "I want you to rest. We can only give you half an hour. And you need every minute of it."

The stress clearly showed on Kirk's face and he shifted ever so slightly, but the motion was halted almost as soon as it began, his body too weak.

McCoy put a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Just one more session. This one won't be as long, Jim. We're making good progress."

Even to Dezi's ears it sounded like a lie.

Kirk's eyes closed and he seemed to relax as they pushed in another unit of whole blood.

Too soon, they were starting the machine again. Dezi found herself tight with apprehension as McCoy leaned over and gently pulled the blanket back to reveal the IV lines.

It took Kirk a moment to com fully aware. The line began its greedy suctioning of his blood. "Wait. Wait…."

McCoy placed a on the pale chest. "We can't wait anymore."

"Just a few…more—"

"You can do this, Jim. Just one more time and it'll be over."

Kirk's features twisted into a mask of stress and pain. His respirations became quick and shallow as the machine removed his blood, filtered it, and pushed it back in with equal speed.

This time, Dezi did not step away from the bed. She stood next to McCoy as Kirk began to make the dreaded sounds of pain, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.

* * *

The quarantine room was finally silent. The specialized machines had been removed and only the soft beep of the bio monitor could be heard. McCoy stared down at Jim, who lay unmoving beneath the warming blanket. He'd been standing in place for the past hour, knowing that he should leave and get some rest, too, but Jim's chem panel was still below normal ranges and more than likely wouldn't level off for another eight hours. They were pushing in meds to compensate for the toll the procedure had taken on his body. Most of his organs had been negatively affected by the filtered blood and Jim had more IV bags hanging above him now than when he'd first been admitted.

"You'd be really pissed if you woke up now," he said to the unconscious man. But he knew Jim wouldn't be waking up anytime in the next twenty-four hours. His body had been so stressed by the procedure that they had to treat an entirely new set of issues and it was a balancing act trying to manage his metabolic levels. But the bacterium was gone. His blood was clean. In the meantime, Jim needed to recover his strength.

He walked to the edge of the bed, his feet dragging. God, he was exhausted. He put a hand to Jim's head, needing the reassuring feel that despite how still and pale his friend was, he was alive. Jim didn't even stir at the contact.

_I hope this wasn't for nothing._ Jim was still waiting on Kettrig's final decision. If that went through and medical cleared Jim, there was still the Academy Board to pass. McCoy had no idea why Komack wanted to see Jim, and Jim had said nothing of the visit. But a sick bed visit from a Board Admiral was never a good sign. Jim had pissed off more than a few officers with his little stunt on the Kobayashi Maru, and McCoy had to believe that mutiny and escape from exile only added to their impatience. The admirals had perched themselves a safe distance from Jim, like vultures waiting for a signal to pounce. McCoy hoped that the medical clearance wasn't that signal.

He released a breath and dropped his hand, stepping back from the bed to stretch his spine and ease the tension that had settled at the base of his neck. What he wouldn't give for a good massage. Was he really getting that old? There was a time when he could do a thirty-six hour tour in the Emergency Room and still meet Jocelyn for dinner at a high-tech club.

He looked down at Jim, noticing how frail and vulnerable he appeared. Hard to remember the cocky, self-assured man who had announced that he was taking the test again.

"Doesn't it bother you that nobody has ever won?" Jim had asked.

But it hadn't bothered McCoy. He saw the test for what it was – a psychological screening. In the end, how would Starfleet see Jim – as cutting-edge command material, brilliant and unpredictable? Or as a loose cannon not to be trusted?

The door opened and the night nurse entered.

"I thought you'd be off-duty, Doctor," she said politely as she checked the IV lines and regulators.

"I'm headed that way." His voice sounded weary. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn't going to be able to stay on his feet much longer.

"Dr. Rutgar's can handle everything, and we have your comm code."

"His liver panel is still problematic." And his kidneys were only producing at sixty percent.

She nodded without looking at him. "He's certainly wrung out. Hasn't moved in hours." As she finished checking the lines, she focused on Jim for a moment. "The procedure must have been difficult."

McCoy didn't reply. There were no words that would adequately describe what Jim went through. In his years as a physician he had never witnessed anything like it, and he hoped he never would again. Guerrilla doctoring, they used to call it in the twentieth century – doctors holding down patients as they screamed in pain.

"He'll be all right, though?" she asked, turning her head to look at him with uncertainty. "They got it all?"

Maybe it was because he was dead on his feet and seeing double, but McCoy thought he saw fear in her eyes, shadowed with a kind of childish hope, as if she had just asked if the tooth fairy was real, but already knowing the answer. He nodded. It had almost killed Jim, but they had scrubbed his blood of every trace of the bacterium. Starfleet bio labs had it now and it would spend the next months or years developing a treatment against it, should it ever threaten the Federation again.

The relief on her face was clear. The corners of her mouth turned up briefly. "Good."

The PADD in his hand beeped and he looked down at it, having forgotten he held it. A message from the Surgeon General's Office blinked in a demanding rhythm. Holding his breath, he touched the screen and opened the message. It was short and direct, like all of Kettrig's messages. It took him only a few seconds to read it, but he couldn't seem to stop staring at it. He didn't know how long he stood in place, but the PADD suddenly felt heavy in his hand and his head hurt. He looked up, raising his head as if it were an anchor. The nurse was gone and Jim lay in the same position, the monitors beeping softly. He wanted to stay with Jim, but he also wanted to be as far away from the hospital as he could get. He wanted to finish a bottle of bourbon and crawl into bed and sleep for a week. But he couldn't do any of those things. Not yet. He looked down at the PADD held numbly between his fingers.

For the first time in weeks, he didn't know what to do. He looked back at Jim's unmoving, sleeping form. Through everything the young man had been through, from jumping onto the Romulan drill, to exile and sickness, Jim had never given up. He'd risked his life for what he believed was right…and Earth had been saved because of him. McCoy suddenly realized that, during all of this, nobody had fought for _Jim_. The Academy Board had been quick to condemn. The Vulcan had been brutal in his determination to contain Jim, to teach him a lesson he was unwilling to learn.

McCoy's fingers tightened on the PADD. His heart slammed against his chest as a sudden burst of anger rushed through him. Goddamned bureaucrats! Everybody was looking to save their own ass, and nobody was willing to save Jim's. But what did they care anyway? Earth was saved, the Romulan ship sucked through a black hole never to be seen again. Even the bacteria that Jim had caught on the ship had disappeared. Well, he'd be goddamned if he was going to stand by and let them make Jim disappear.

He spun on his heels, feeling a renewed surge of energy. He was going to make this right.


	9. Chapter 9

Isolation

**Private Room**

Spock walked down the narrow corridor of the medical wing of Starfleet Medical Center, moving purposefully toward the room that was located at the end of the hall. The doors to the rooms that lined the corridor were closed for privacy, for which he was grateful. He had spent far too many hours in medical wards the past few weeks, observing suffering of one kind or another, uncertain as to what his presence was meant to accomplish.

"Encourage them," Uhura had said when he hesitated to tour the Medbay. "They want to know you care."

To which he had had no reply.

On Vulcan, when one was sick, one retreated to heal in private, entering a deep trance which precluded any "encouragement." The human practice of visiting the sick and injured had always perplexed him. He was not one to bend to social convention, despite his human heritage, but duty required a sociological role. A duty he carried out, but found…difficult.

Today, his presence at the Center had little to do with duty. His steps slowed as he approached the room he'd sought. Taking a moment to put his mental barriers in place, he stepped forward. He anticipated the onslaught of emotions that often emanated from ill or injured beings, but as the door slid open and he entered, he felt nothing pushing against his barriers. The room was nearly empty, except for the quiet form on the biobed. He had not known what to expect when McCoy had, surprisingly, invited him to visit Kirk, but the sight of the unmoving, pale figure disarmed him.

"_He won't be conscious for another day," McCoy had said. "Most likely."_

The readings displayed on the monitor were in fluctuation, showing each breath and heartbeat, various pressures and chemical panels. The soft beeping filled the room – an unwelcome, too familiar sound. He moved to the side of the bed and studied the face of the man who had unraveled decades of his Vulcan training in forty-five seconds, who had willfully violated Starfleet's Code of Conduct, and had dared to argue its merits before the Academy Board; a man who had insisted on pursuing, against all logic, an enemy ship that they'd had no hope of defeating.

Petulant, Spock had thought. Undisciplined. Arrogant. But Kirk had been _right_. His actions, illogical and all too-human, had saved the ship and Earth, had defeated the enemy invader. How, Spock still had not ascertained.

Studying the sleeping form, Spock noted that he appeared little like the young man who had stood centimeters from him on the _Enterprise_ Bridge, unblinking and challenging. This face was pale and drawn and thin, compared to the last time he had seen Kirk. Long lashes rested against the darkened shadows beneath his eyes. The bruises had faded slightly, but the flesh across the wide jaw was an unhealthy gray. Spock was well aware of the strain the micro-filtering process caused in humans, and of the risks of permanent damage.

He thought back to the figure of Dr. McCoy, standing irritated and uninvited at his door, offering no apology for interrupting his nightly meditation.

"_I need to talk to you," McCoy demanded, his lips drawn into a tight line._

_Spock considered the doctor, observing the obvious signs of fatigue and stress. Beneath the exhaustion was tension, coiling muscles that jumped along the jaw and the base of the neck. Anger, he concluded. He knew why McCoy had come. He had known of Kettrig's decision before the doctor had received the message. For a brief moment, he calculated his options for dealing with the human. All of them ended the same way: emotionally. He could confront McCoy now or later – the results would be the same. In a smooth motion, he stepped aside to allow McCoy entrance._

_The doctor walked in, brushing past him with quick steps. He could feel emotions radiating from the man, and even with his mental shields firmly in place, he experienced McCoy's raw anger._

"_How may I be of assistance, Doctor?"_

_McCoy spun, a scowl narrowing his eyes. "Don't bullshit me, Spock. You know damn well why I'm here. Kettrig made her decision."_

_Spock placed his hands behind his back, assuming his familiar and comfortable stance. "And now you want to know _my_ decision."_

_McCoy glowered at him. "Jim's been released from quarantine. That means the Board will rule on the ethics violation."_

"_I would assume so."_

"_Damn it, man! You've been after me to speak to Jim for over a week now, and it wasn't to get a status report." The hazel eyes hardened as they fixed him with a stare. "You owe him."_

_Spock tilted his head slightly, unacquainted with the phrase. "Owe?"_

"_Yes, __**owe**__. He saved our asses and the Federation's as well."_

_And then he understood. "If you are referring to Cadet Kirk taking command of the Enterprise, th—"_

"_I'm __**referring**__ to Jim giving you a __**second chance**__."_

_He stared at McCoy, unblinking. _

_McCoy rolled his eyes and expelled a short gusting breath. "He let you on board Nero's ship."_

_Spock was fully aware that Kirk, after having removed him as captain, had also reinstated him as First Officer, giving him the opportunity to stop Nero and rescue Pike-two objectives that had been his duty to perform as captain._

_But to McCoy he said, "That was the only logical decision for Kirk to have made und—"_

"_Bullshit! Jim did it because it was the _right_ thing to do."_

_Spock held his composure, fingers flexing behind his back. He said nothing for a moment, allowing silence to fill the room and cool McCoy's emotions. He was not familiar with the doctor's patterns of behavior, as he was with Pike, so he was uncertain about the best course to take. McCoy had supported him against a friend and then, just as quickly, had turned against him, condemning his decision. It had been obvious that McCoy had been protecting Kirk, when he could not defend him. It was equally obvious to Spock why the doctor had really wanted to speak to him. But he wanted to hear it from McCoy. "What is it you want, Doctor?"_

_McCoy's face grew flushed. "Damn it, you know why I'm here! There's a man lying in a bed at the medical center who's been through hell and back and I'm not about to sit by and let him get kicked out of the Academy for one impetuous move."_

"_Doctor—"_

"_You have the pull to sway the Board." McCoy's voice had taken on a desperate tone. He looked at Spock with overly bright eyes. "Jim was a good captain. I don't want to see his entire career and everything he could be washed away because he dared to challenge a stupid test that served no purpose other than to demonstrate fear." He paused, shifting his weight on his long legs. "If you had remained captain, we'd all be dead." There was no malice in his tone. It was a statement of fact._

"_I am aware of the probable outcome, Doctor."_

_McCoy swore under his breath and spun away, running a hand through his hair – a human gesture of frustration. Then he turned back to Spock and said, "He beat the test because of who-he-is. It wasn't in him to do anything else. Just like you didn't know how to do anything else but follow the logic to rendezvous with the Fleet."_

_It was the first logical thing McCoy had said. Spock took a few steps forward, releasing his hands from their grasp behind his back. "You need not worry about the fate of James Kirk, Doctor. I believe the Board will rule in his favor."_

_His response seemed to surprise then concern McCoy. His eyes narrowed. "So, you'll retract your accusation?"_

_Spock shook his head slightly. "I cannot retract the clear evidence of his actions. The Board has already been made aware of them and they must rule. But Kirk has a few…allies on the Board. He is not as isolated as he thinks."_

_McCoy seemed to absorb what he'd said, slowly relaxing. After a moment, McCoy nodded and looked around, as if he just now realized that he was standing in the middle of Spock's private quarters and didn't know what to do. "I didn't mean to interrupt your evening."_

_Which Spock knew was not the truth._

"_I should go."_

_As McCoy began to walk toward the door, Spock felt a tightening in his abdomen. He had felt that way as a boy when his mother would take a trip to Earth, leaving him behind. _

"_Doctor…how is he?" The question seemed to come from nowhere._

_McCoy's steps faltered slightly, then he stopped and turned, one hand pressed to the back of his neck as if to seek some relief. He seemed to consider Spock's question before he answered, and then chose his words carefully. "Not so good."_

"_The procedure was successful." Spock had read the detailed report._

_McCoy's mouth twisted into a tight smile. "If I had a credit for every time a procedure was successful and the patient died…." He dropped his hand from his neck and a regarded Spock. "You can see him if you want."_

The faint odor of antiseptic wafted under Spock's nose, bringing him back to the present. Staring at Kirk now, he wondered about the doctor's prognosis, and his wisdom in allowing Spock to visit. The human on the bed looked far more ill than he had been prepared to see, and any attempted communication at this time would most likely be futile. And yet, he didn't want to leave.

It was true he had been seeking permission to visit Kirk ever since he had become aware of the existence of the other Spock. He could not help but be intrigued by what the Other had foretold, of a future where he and Kirk would establish an extraordinary working relationship and achieve great things, in a future that no longer existed. Now there was only the promise of their potential, contingent on the nurturing of a rare relationship, balancing logic and intuition that, as the Other had said, made the impossible possible. And…a promise of something else, something so alien to Spock and yet so pleasing, that he found himself clinging to it with fierceness he had not experienced before, as though he needed to protect this fragile idea from harm.

"_A friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize," Other Spock had said._

Could that be true? He stared at the pale face pressed against the whiteness of the linens. Could they share such a friendship?

Spock folded himself into the chair by the bed…and waited.

* * *

Pain was the last thing Jim knew as darkness descended; pain, and the sound of Bones' voice, distant and strained, telling him to rest. Closer were the cries in his voice, fading into the blackness. For a long time he knew nothing, felt nothing. In blessed silence, where time ceased to exist, he floated without fear or regret, without past or future, owing no one and being owed nothing. For the first time he could ever remember, he was at peace. He was free. It was inevitable that it would not last. Nothing lasted for him. Fame, favor, pain – it was like an Orion truffle, just when he was beginning to enjoy it, it disappeared on his tongue.

Against his will, the darkness lifted. As he drifted up from the ebony well where he'd fallen, he was not aware of his body, only of disjointed thoughts circulating in his head and a voice that refused to leave him. There was no language to the voice, only a presence that protected him in a way that he'd never known. It calmed him as he surfaced into consciousness.

He heard the beep of the monitors, softly chiming in the quietness of the room. Like Siren-song, it lured him into waking. Thoughts began to form more coherently in rapid succession as bits of conversation interrupted his peace.

_No more. Stop._

_Don't move. Stay still._

_Wait. Wait._

_Just breathe. It'll pass._

He opened his eyes, only a fraction, peeking through a veil of lashes. A figure sat by the bed, smudged in shadows and still as a sculpture. Bones. He let his eyes close again, feeling how heavy his body was, seeming weighted to the bed. Numb. Sometimes he hated his mind. It was mercurial and eidetic. With vivid imagery, he recalled how the pain had ripped through him, crushing his organs, burning his skin—

_Fuck_.

He pushed the thoughts away, still remembering how he had begged Bones to stop. Maybe he could crawl back into the darkness. But no, his body was waking now and he felt an increasing bone-deep ache with each breath he drew. His left side hurt where that bitch line had clamped onto him. He could still feel it, though he knew it could not be there. They wouldn't have left it in, left it to chew on him like an Alterian serpent.

_Fuck,_ he thought again, because it was how he felt about everything right now. It was difficult to breathe. The pressure in his chest crushed him to the bed, and he discovered he could only take shallow breaths as though his lungs had shrunken in size. As he focused on breathing, he became aware that there wasn't a place on his body that didn't hurt. It was a different kind of pain than he'd felt during the procedure. That had been focused and systematic. This pain was pervasive and less intense. With stronger effort, he opened his eyes. As his vision came into focus, he could not suppress his surprise at what he saw. The figure sitting by his bed was not Bones, as he had first thought. It was Spock.

Not a holograph image, but the real Spock, and that meant he was out of isolation.

_Shit_. He shifted, hoping to get an elbow under him, gain a better position, anything that would give him leverage over the Vulcan besides lying like a dead mackerel on the sand. But the moment he shifted, a chain reaction was set off, waking a new series of pains, flaring and sharp. He sucked in his breath with a hiss, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to bite back the cry that was rising at the back of his throat. Even with his eyes closed, he saw tiny sparks of white light against his lids; heat suffused his skin as the pain momentarily overwhelmed him.

He heard Spock rise to his feet and he cursed again. He didn't want the Vulcan to see him like this. Bones had seen him weak with fever and tense with pain, but Spock…Spock was a commander in Starfleet, a trainer at the Academy, and Jim didn't want to be seen flat on his back, shivering with pain and too weak to even move. Why had Bones let him in?

He forced his eyes open, now wet with unshed tears, and did his best to focus on the Vulcan who had come to stand over him.

"Do you require assistance, Cadet?" Spock asked. His thin, sharp brows drew down over black eyes.

He tried not to wince at the sudden reduction in rank. He was no longer captain, not even commander, but a cadet, little more than a plebe. No, he thought to answer, the word right on the tip of his tongue, but "Water," is what he said.

God was that his voice, weak and strained and barely a whisper?

Spock looked around the bed then reached for something near the wall, momentarily disappearing from Jim's line of sight. When he returned, he had no water.

Typical. Ask a Vulcan for something simple…. Jim's head pounded with renewed effort. The flush of heat that had washed over him receded, leaving him cold. A shiver tore through him. He took a few more shallow breaths, feeling the pressure in his chest increase. "Why—"

The word caught in his throat and he tried again, measuring his breaths. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

At that Spock raised a single brow. "To thank you."

Jesus, that was what comms were for. He closed his eyes again. He didn't want the Commander here, having a front row seat to witness his misery. His right thigh began to throb painfully. He never should have moved. The hiss of a door opening drew his attention and he opened his eyes.

"Did you need something, Cadet?" a female voice asked.

"He requested some water," Spock answered for him.

Flat on his back, he couldn't see the nurse, but she didn't sound like any of the nurses who had taken care of him.

"I'm sorry, commander," she said, "but Cadet Kirk is on restricted fluids. Doctor's orders."

_Well, fuck you then._ He shivered again.

"Thank you, nurse," Spock said and focused his attention back on Jim as the nurse left. "Am I fatiguing you?"

The black eyes staring down at him were not so different than those of the older Spock, except these eyes lacked the depth and sorrow he had seen in the other. He remembered how the older Spock had looked at him, with affection and compassion. Despite everything that had happened, that Spock looked at him as if nothing else mattered. He felt a pang at the loss and immediately scolded himself. That Spock had been seeing the other Jim Kirk. Not him.

Still struggling to fill his lungs, he carefully chose his words. "Why…are you…thanking me?"

Spock straightened. "I believe the customary response is - you are welcome."

Was that a Vulcan attempt at humor? He scowled. The burning pain in his thigh crept toward his groin, digging in deep. He felt every beat of his heart, pushing blood through his body, creating a tempo of throbbing from head to toe. "Tell me."

Spock considered his command with the same amount of seriousness as if Jim had just asked him for his kidney. "Your methods are unorthodox and undisciplined, but the effectiveness of your command decisions is irrefutable. Even Captain Pike is impressed with your ability to quickly assess and move to resolution."

Pike was talking to Spock about him? Jesus, this conversation just kept getting worse. He was still waiting for the thank-you.

"I would not have been able to render the mission a success. The situation required your particular methodology."

The pain in his groin was demanding more of his attention, as was the ache radiating from beneath his ribs. A flush came over him and he couldn't help but move restlessly. There was a ringing in his ears as nausea suddenly swept over him. No, dammit, he was not going to puke in front of this guy.

"I have given this much thought," Spock continued.

But Jim didn't hear the rest of his words over the ringing in his ears and thunder of his pulse. Bits of what Spock was saying filtered through, something about command style, Alexander the Great. The pain in his groin twisted his insides and he wanted to curl on his side, but he didn't have the strength to move.

"Spock," he said faintly. Christ, he needed air.

Spock stopped speaking and there was a long moment when Jim wasn't sure what was going on. All he knew was the mass of pain his body had become. Suddenly, Bones was there, his scowling face hovering in Jim's blurry vision. The sting of a hypo was barely felt against his neck. Within seconds, the pain began to fade and he felt the familiar heaviness as the narcotic wended through his blood. He lay still, breathing shallowly. His vision didn't clear, but he could tell that Spock was still at his bedside.

He rolled his head along the pillow and watched as Bones adjusted something with one of his IV lines. Tapping at the commands with precise movements, Bones went from one task to another, taking only a moment to study the monitor above Jim's head. Another hypo to his neck and his vision cleared.

"That was tri-ox," Bones said and briefly glanced at the monitor. "Better?"

He nodded, letting the drugs lull him into a state of semi-sleep. His pulse had slowed and the pain was now a dull ache.

"I think that's all for now, Commander," Bones said. "He needs to rest."

"Of course."

If there was a goodbye, Jim missed it. He felt Bones' hands on him, fussing and assessing. A nurse entered and Bones spoke briefly to her before coming to stand at the side of the bed Spock had just vacated.

"How's the pain?"

Fine, thanks.

"Jim?" Bones laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Fine," he said at length.

"Fine, huh." The scowl on Bones' face deepened and his mouth twisted into a thin line. "I can't give you any more pain meds, not without suppressing your breathing."

It _was _difficult to breathe, but the drugs had taken the edge off and he was quickly slipping into sleep. But before he did, he asked Bones why he had let Spock visit.

"He's been chomping at the bit to see you for weeks. Anyway, you're the one who's been bitching about not having visitors."

True, but the Vulcan? "Why not…Uhura?"

Both of Bones' eyebrows rose. "You're in no condition for female visitors." He paused and his expression softened. "I didn't think you'd wake up. I wanted to be here."

"…It's gone then."

Bones nodded. "We got all of it. Medical has cleared you."

So he was free. No more quarantine.

Somehow, the thought gave him little comfort as he slid into darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

Isolation

**Conclusion**

"Does that hurt?" Bones asked, hands braced on either side of Jim's right thigh.

"Yes, it hurts," Jim said crossly. The blanket had been pulled back to expose the mass of bruises spread across his leg. It was god-awful to look at and he turned away, feeling a wave of nausea overcome him. He felt Bones' scowling gaze. He knew he was being an asshole, but Bones had been examining him for over twenty minutes, poking and prodding, pressing and patting. His skin was unusually sensitive and the feel of Bones' hands on him was like being caressed by sandpaper. To add to his discomfort, he was continually nauseated and the sharp pain where the lines had been inserted was a constant reminder of his ordeal.

"Jim," Bones said.

He heard the tone in his friend's voice, the heavy I'm-tired-and-I'm-trying-to-be-patient tone Bones liked to use right before he launched into a lecture. And maybe he deserved it, but it'd been two days since the procedure had been completed and he still felt like shit. No one had come to visit him, and there had been no word on the Board's ruling. He was tied to the bed with IVs and too weak even to stand. So, yeah, he was in a pissy mood and he wasn't going to apologize for it.

"This would go faster if you'd talk to me," Bones said.

He didn't turn to look at Bones who had pulled out a small scanner and placed it gently on Jim's thigh. The cool contact of the scanner sent a shiver through him. He let out a soft, resigned breath, leaning back on the mattress. The bed had been elevated at a thirty degree angle, but he found the new position only added to the pain in his leg, which throbbed with a burning ache that stretched into his groin to settle in his hip.

Bones pocketed the scanner and pulled the blanket to cover his leg, catching the urinary catheter line. He grunted as the catheter tugged slightly.

"Sorry," Bones said.

"When are you going to remove that?" he asked, turning to face Bones with a scowl.

"When you go eight hours on full kidney function." Bones stared pointed at him. "You've got three more to go."

Fuck that. He was sick of sitting around waiting for something to happen, waiting for medical to clear him, waiting for results on the virus or bacteria or whatever the hell it was that had invaded his blood, waiting for someone other than Bones to walk through the door—

"Sit forward a little. I want to measure your lung capacity," Bones said, sliding a hand to the back of Jim's neck and urging him forward, off the pillows. The cool hand tightened as he listed to the side, suddenly dizzy. In an instant, Bones' hands were on either side of his shoulders, holding him steady.

"Okay?"

The room steadied as his vision came into focus. "Yeah," he managed to answer, feeling Bones' penetrating gaze as he blinked several times.

Bones kept his hands in place for a moment longer, then slowly, almost reluctantly, released him to retrieve an instrument. "This is going to measure how much air your lungs can hold and how much is left after you exhale. I'm going to hold it to your back and have you take a breath." He paused, studying Jim closely. "Jim? Are you up for this?"

Nausea was rising to the back of his throat and a stabbing pain cut into the left side of his chest. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The instrument was cool as Bones pressed it to his naked back.

"Take a deep breath, as deep as you can, then let it out."

He drew a breath, feeling the cutting sensation sharpen just beneath his ribs. As quickly as he filled his lungs, he exhaled. A faint chime sounded.

One of Bones' hands closed around his bicep and he realized he was swaying. "Try again, as deep a breath as you can."

Without understanding why, he did as he was instructed, his ribs catching, pulse racing.

The chime sounded.

"You can do better than that, Jim," Bones said quietly. "Try once more, really fill up your lungs."

His head was pounding and his leg throbbing like a son of a bitch. He wanted to tell Bones to go to hell and stick his damn instrument. Exasperated and irritated, he took another breath and released it. He heard the wheeze as air pressed out his sore lungs. Distantly, he felt Bones' hand on his arm tightening painfully as his vision went gray. And then like air being let out of a balloon, he sagged against Bones' solid muscles.

"Okay, okay," Bones said quietly, calmly.

The next thing he knew he was flat on his back, his vision clearing to the image of a scowling Bones. His heart was pounding rapidly against his ribs, amplifying the pain. He lay still, trying to catch his breath and watched as Bones studied the monitor with a grim face.

"That bad?" he said in a whisper.

Bones looked at him. "Could be better. Your lungs are at seventy percent. Everything else is healing nicely."

He snorted. Where the hell did Bones get that idea? "My leg hurts…like a bitch on fire."

Bones winced sympathetically, but kept his professional mask in place. "Forcing that much blood through so quickly weakened the artery. We had to do some repairs."

"You're just now…telling me this?"

"I told you, Jim," Bones said patiently.

How much else hadn't Bones said? He frowned. "Why am I having…so much trouble breathing?"'

"You had a reaction to the filtered blood. Your body saw it as a foreign substance and started rejecting it."

So that explained the bouquet of IV bags hanging over him.

"Fuck," he said, closing his eyes.

"Yeah. You don't make things easy. It was an unforeseen complication. But like I said, you're healing. It's just going slowly."

He heard a metallic click and felt the pull on the IV in his hand. Before he could open his eyes and protest, the soft hiss of the hypo in Bones' hand filled his ears. A sudden rush of heat filled him as the narcotic pushed through the IV. "I don't need that."

"Your skyrocketing blood pressure tells me otherwise."

He hated the way Bones spoke in such absolutes, as if Jim was basically clueless and thank god Leonard McCoy had come along when he did to save Jim's sorry ass. He moved restlessly in the bed, despite the narcotic moving through his blood and the pain the movement caused. He wanted out – out of the bed, out of the room, out of the hospital.

"Hey, Jim," Bones said softly, watching the monitor with concern. He dropped his gaze and rested a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Just relax. It's only a mild painkiller."

"It's not the painkiller," he forced out. Well, it was, but he had a longer list he was focused on. He rolled his head away from Bones, hating the weakness in his body, the sound of his lungs wheezing now that his respirations were up, the cold sweat that had suddenly broken out on his skin, sending chills throughout his body. Christ, could he be anymore pathetic?

"Come on, Jim," Bones said gently but firmly. "You need to calm down."

He hated being told to calm down. Why should he calm down?No one had calmed down when Nero destroyed Vulcan. No one had calmed down when he was marooned on Delta Vega. His head began to pound and moving really hadn't been a good idea. But whatever Bones had given him, mild or not, it was taking some of the fight out of him, and he hated that most of all.

Bones pressed a cool cloth to his forehead and he sank into the sensation the way an addict sank into a fix. For an instant, the image of Bones was replaced with the image of twelve year old Sam, leaning over him while he moved restlessly with fever, whispering promises he knew Sam could not keep.

"Sam used to do this for me," he said softly. He wasn't sure where the words had come from. Narcotics always made him loose-lipped.

"Your brother?"

"When I was sick." His body relaxed a little more into the drug.

"You don't talk much about him," Bones said. "Sounds like a great big brother."

"Not really."_ He left me_.

Bones stared down at him with a sad and oddly wise expression. "Maybe he did the best he could."

Shit, this was exactly why he hated narcotics. "Maybe he chickened out and left."

"You stayed."

"No, I came back." He really needed to stop talking.

Bones frowned slightly. "Back from where?"

He closed his eyes and took a soft breath, his muscles loosening. "Anyway, I'm never going back again." His words sounded slurred.

"You won't have to," Bones said as he removed the cloth. "The Board will rule in your favor. You'll be some hot shot captain flying from one galaxy to the next, a million light years from Earth."

A million light years…. Bones was so positive, so certain, and yet it sounded like a fairytale, something Sam would have told him when he was a baby. He opened his eyes again, but noticed it was more difficult to keep them open. Bones stood by his bed, dressed in a white tunic with the medical insignia clearly displayed on the left side of his chest. It occurred to Jim that Bones knew exactly who he was and what he was going to be doing tomorrow, and the next day and the next. Jim had had that feeling for a while, in the Academy, on top of the world, his sights set on being a starship captain. The only thing he was certain of at this moment was that Bones was here to take care of him, and that his friend would never leave him.

"Get some rest," Bones said, turning away.

Without conscious effort, his fingers clasped the sleeve of his friend's tunic.

Bones stopped and looked at him quizzically.

"Thanks."

A soft smile played on the corners of Bones' mouth and his eyes softened. "You're welcome."

* * *

The Starfleet Academy Board delivered a communication to him the next day, informing him that the Board would rule on their findings _after_ he was released to full duty. _At least they aren't ignoring me anymore,_ he thought. It was a small comfort.

As the days passed, Jim measured his success in terms of less, not more. First his urinary catheter was removed, and then one by one the IV bags disappeared, until there was only one left. He slept less, and that was both a blessing and a curse. As he lay in the bed waiting for the next round of therapy, or for a visitor to walk through the doors, he found he had too much time to think.

He eyed the single clear tubing that hung from the bag, stretching down to his right hand. His stomach tightened at the sight of it penetrating the pale layer of skin. Turning away, he looked around the empty room and let out an exasperated breath.

Scotty had come to visit a day earlier. He'd been awkward and animated as he explained why he had shared his formula for long-range transwarp beaming with Starfleet Engineering and how he was no longer _status non gratis_, but now the most popular engineer in Starfleet.

"_Congratulations," Jim said with a smile, leaning back into the bed._

"_Aye." Then Scotty deflated a little in his enthusiasm and sobered, looking around uncomfortably. "They going ta spring you from this place, laddie?"_

"_Soon." He'd just finished a respiration therapy session and it had left him drained. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open._

_The Scotsman's eyes lit. "Well, when they do, the first round's on me. If you hadna come along, I'd still be buried on Delta Vega."_

_Jim liked this man, with his blatant disregard for protocol and his righteous contempt for authority. Maybe it was the camaraderie between two men who had done time – Scotty on Delta Vega and Jim on Earth. Or maybe it was their shared love of space and adventure and the belief that anything was possible. _

"_It wasn't just me," Jim said._

"_Aye." Scotty let his word hang in silence for a moment. "I tried ta find him, but there are thousands of Vulcans on Earth now. They're gettin' ready ta move on. Found a new planet."_

_Fatigue was weighing him down, making it difficult to keep his eyes open, but he didn't want his visitor to leave. "Enterprise?"_

_Scotty winced noticeably. "She'll need some repairs, that's for sure. She took a beating, but she's safety tucked in space dock. A lot better than the rest of the fleet. Thanks to you."_

"_Not sure if anybody noticed," he said softly._

"_They noticed, Jim. Everybody on that ship knows who got them home."_

_His eyes drooped sleepily._

"_Ach! Dr. McCoy warned me not to tire you. That man's gotta wrath that would put a highland lord ta shame."_

_The image made him smile._

The door to his room hissed open, interrupting his thoughts. Bones entered as he always did, as if he owned the room. The sight of Bones' smooth gait closing the distance between them made him envious. His first excursion out of bed had been less impressive. Despite Bones' gentle warning to take it slow, his legs had buckled almost immediately. He cried out as the muscles in his thigh stretched and convulsed under the pressure and he was being ushered back into bed before he could catch his breath. By his third attempt, two days later, he'd been able to make it to the door and back in a wobbly, uncoordinated shuffle that left him shaking and covered in sweat.

"How are you feeling?" Bones asked. A PADD rested securely in his hands.

"Terrific," he said absently. Bones always asked the same question.

Bones focused on the PADD. "You didn't eat your breakfast."

That's because he'd thrown-up his dinner and he didn't want to make it two for two. "Not hungry."

"Uh-huh." Bones sounded distracted, but Jim knew he was paying attention. "Your pain levels are down."

Jim didn't like the way Bones studied the PADD, fingers tapping commands to get the information he wanted. It was perfunctory. Bones already knew he'd thrown-up his dinner and refused his evening respiratory therapy. And, no doubt, the medical staff had well-documented his restless night – coughing fit and all. The PADD was a stall tactic.

Finally, Bones looked up and stared directly at him. "You can't skip your respiratory therapy sessions, Jim."

"I was tired." Which was a lie, of course. The sessions left him deflated and drained with a headache that felt like an ax had been impaled in his skull.

"I'll prescribe a mild analgesic before the sessions. That should make them less uncomfortable."

Sessions? How many more were there?

Bones tapped a few commands into the PADD before lowering it and coming to stand next to the bed. "You know you're lucky to be alive."

"So you keep telling me." He raised his right hand, showing the IV that was stuck in him. "When do I get rid of this?"

"When you start eating. That's a complex mixture that helping to balance your electrolytes, among other things."

"It's not medicine?" He frowned, looking at it.

"Not medicine per se," Bones said, checking the IV regulator. "It's enhanced fluid replacement. Healing takes a lot of energy and resources from your body."

Yeah, no kidding. He was surprisingly tired for a man who was lying around all day.

"How's your leg?" Bones asked, pushing aside the blankets to examine his thigh. "Still painful?"

"Stiff. A little achy." It didn't begin to really hurt until he stood, and then it felt as if someone was driving a blade through his leg.

Bones nodded. "That'll get better. The muscles were traumatized a little during the procedure. They take longer to heal." He pulled the blanket in place again. "I want to get you on your feet this morning, and I've ordered your respiratory therapy for this afternoon."

Fantastic. He could look forward to throwing up his lunch _and_ dinner.

"When do I get out of here?"

Bones crossed his arms over his chest, a stance, Jim noticed, he used when he was trying to throw his weight around. He fixed Jim with a determined stare. "That depends on your level of cooperation."

"Bones…"

"Two or three days at the most, unless something sets you back."

"Nothing's going to set me back," he said with a frown.

"Like skipping your therapy sessions."

The door hissed open and Spock stepped forward, only to stop suddenly at the sight of the two of them. "My apologies, Doctor. The room's privacy signal was not activated. I did not intend to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting." Jim had spoken a little too soon, a little too quickly. "We're done, right, Bones?"

Bones' gaze bounced between the two of them. "Right. I was just leaving." And then to Jim he said, "I'll be back in one hour."

Spock waited until McCoy had left before stepping to the bed. Wearing the uniform of an Academy trainer, it was clear that Spock had retained his position with the Academy, despite having been removed as Captain.

"You look markedly improved from the last time I saw you," Spock said.

"That's not saying much." He felt a grin tug at his mouth, then abandoned the effort when Spock's face remained impassive and all too serious. "That was a joke."

A single eyebrow rose.

He was glad to see Spock, as if they were already old friends who had shared many adventures and hardships together, and Spock standing by his side was the most natural thing in the world. In fact, they hardly knew one another, and the little they had interacted was not exactly in the way that endeared them to each other. Jim could still clearly recall the Vulcan standing stiffly at the podium accusing him of cheating, which, oddly enough, hurt more than being marooned. Maybe it was the effects of the Vulcan mind-meld that gave him that sense of familiarity with Spock. Maybe it was the _other_ Spock he felt close to and not this one.

He shifted in bed, cautious not to set his leg throbbing. Bones would be back in one hour to get him on his feet whether he was ready for it or not, and he'd just as soon not have his leg be a mass of pulsating agony when he did it. He looked at Spock, feeling less familiar with each uncomfortable passing minute. _Why is he just staring at me?_ For the first time he could remember, Jim didn't know what to say, and neither, it appeared, did the Vulcan.

"Scotty said _Enterprise_ is under repairs." It was a lame start to a conversation.

This seemed to relax the rigid shoulders. Spock inclined his head slightly. "Indeed. Starfleet Core of Engineers estimates it will take six months to repair the damage."

He nodded, realizing there was nothing left to say on that subject and fussed with his blanket, searching for words to say about what he felt, what he wanted, and not to sound like a girl who had just gotten her heart broken.

"I suppose Captain Pike isn't too impressed with my command style." The words just fell from his mouth.

"On the contrary, he found your ability to command under difficult circumstances admirable. Which brings me to the purpose of my visit."

"You're not going to say thank you again, are you?"

"No."

But whatever the purpose of the visit, the Vulcan was as uncomfortable as Jim. And that was making Jim very nervous. He waited expectantly, wondering if the Other Spock had found his way to his doppelganger. But no, they were never to know of each other's existence.

Spock pulled his hands behind his back and drew his shoulders straight. "I came to inform you that you were right: the Kobayashi Maru is flawed. It is not a true test of one's command abilities. The circumstances of our confrontation with Nero posed a real no-win scenario. One I could not have devised under any program constraints."

Jim was too stunned to speak. Of all the possible reasons he'd thought might bring Spock to talk to him, this was not one of them. "You're capitulating."

"Hardly. I am merely re-evaluating the merits of the test based on new information."

Which, Jim figured, was Vulcan bullshit for: I was _wrong_.

Jim studied him for a long moment, and then said, "I accept your apology."

Both eyebrows rose. "I am not offering an apology, Cadet. Your actions were unethical."

He grinned. "What's semantics among friends? Don't answer. That was a rhetorical question. Anyway, I don't think it'll matter much to the Academy Board." He leaned back into the bed, suddenly feeling fatigued and a little breathless. "I don't think I impressed them with my ingenuity."

"You may have succeeded in doing more than that, Mr. Kirk."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Starfleet Academy has been training Starfleet officers for service for over one hundred years. Their methods are proven and verifiable. But they have become…"

"Fossilized?" It was a word Pike had used three years earlier to describe Starfleet.

"Outmoded. Every idea or entity in nature follows the same cycle – it is birthed into existence, grows to maturity, stabilizes and begins to decay." He looked at Jim with a penetrating gaze. "The only logical method of survival is to continue the growth by offering something new to the existing methodology."

Which is what he had done, he realized, in manipulating the Kobayashi Maru by changing the conditions of the test. It could look like a well-thought plan to expose a flaw in the methods of training, but in truth, he had just wanted to win. He thought back to the day Pike had recruited him in the bar.

"_Yeah we're admirable," Pike said of Starfleet. "Respectable. But in my opinion we've become overly disciplined. The service is fossilizing."_

At the time, Jim had barely given Pike his attention, other than to show his contempt. Pike had seen something in him that he hadn't seen in himself. Did he do exactly what Pike had recruited him to do?

"I believe you have given the Academy Board and Starfleet something new to think about," Spock said, as if in confirmation of his thoughts.

For the first time in weeks, he felt relief. He might not graduate from the Academy, but by god he'd made his mark on the Academy. "Thank you, Commander."

"I have done nothing to warrant your gratitude. It is the function of a first officer to provide the captain with the best options available."

_Captain?_

"You still must stand before the Board and answer for your actions, Mr. Kirk."

He leaned back into the mattress, suddenly more tired than he realized. A grin tugged at his mouth. "The customary response is you're welcome."

For a moment, they said nothing and Jim liked the silence between them, no longer awkward. It was the silence shared by friends when words were unnecessary.

"I am fatiguing you," Spock said, moving to take a step away.

"No." He sat up, rallying his strength despite his sudden weariness. "I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile to enforce his words.

After a moment, Spock inclined his head ever so slightly and settled in place. Silence fell on them again and Jim had an opportunity to study the man he had seen as both an adversary and an ally, seeing beneath the Vulcan veil for the first time. What he saw was a man divided by cultures and philosophies, by duty and desire, by who he wanted to be and who others thought he was.

"_Earth is the only home I have left," Spock had said._

But would Earth ever really be Spock's home any more than it would be Jim's?

"How are you doing?" Jim asked unexpectedly.

The question caught Spock by surprise. "I am well."

But he wasn't, Jim could see. There was something in his eyes, a softness that reflected sorrow, something he had seen in the Transporter Room on the day Spock had lost his home planet. It was a look Jim was very familiar with. He had grown up seeing it in Sam's eyes every day. "I'm sorry about your mother."

The narrow shoulders dropped a few millimeters and he shifted almost imperceptibly. The mask remained in place. "Thank you."

"You haven't had much time to mourn."

"Vulcans do not mourn."

He fixed his gaze on the dark eyes, seeing his own reflection in them. "But you're half human."

Spock thought for a moment before answering. "My mother's heritage is proving to be an inconvenience."

Jim studied Spock and again thought how alike and yet how different the two Spocks were, raising the question again in his mind: Could they become friends?

He motioned to the uniform. "I thought the Academy was on recess."

"It was. Classes resume tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Where had the time gone?

"You need not be concerned about missing classes, Mr. Kirk. I reviewed your academic record. You are well ahead of your classmates in every discipline."

He felt the pull of sleep, but still managed a small smile. "They can still kick me out." And then he wanted to change the subject. "What classes are you instructing?"

He listened as Spock spoke, his eyelids growing heavy.

Somewhere in the middle Spock's monologue, he drifted into sleep.

**Epilogue**

Jim stood nervously in his newly tailored cadet uniform. He'd lost a few kilos in the hospital and, despite Bones' diligence, hadn't gained much back. Taking a quick glance in the mirror above his dresser, he cringed at the fading bruises on his face. He looked like he'd been through a battle. Or two. Medical had cleared him for light duty yesterday, and he still tired easily, spending most of his off-duty time sleeping.

He turned away from the mirror and stood in the tiny space of his dorm room, not knowing exactly what to do. He wasn't due at the assembly for an hour, and now that he was in uniform it seemed all he could to do was wait. This was the last time he'd be in the dorm. His personal possessions had already been removed, leaving him oddly displaced. But tonight he would sleep in Officers Quarters. In another hour, he would be captain.

The door slid open and McCoy walked in, his eyes quickly examining Jim's nervous form.

"Got your hair cut," he said, noticing Jim's close crew. "Uniform looks good."

"I won't miss it." He'd always hated the red cadet uniforms, one identical to the other. Then again, there were a lot of things he wouldn't miss about the Academy, and Earth was one of them.

"You're like a filly that's been taken away from its momma for the first time." McCoy studied him for a moment longer. "This is what you wanted, Jim."

It was what he wanted, what he'd fought so hard to get, and he'd really never thought he wouldn't get what he wanted. The day Pike had recruited him, he knew he was destined to be a Starship captain. It was why he'd told Pike he'd graduate in three years. But he hadn't thought he'd get it this way. He didn't know why, but it felt like cheating.

"I can see the wheels turnin' from here," McCoy said. His Southern drawl was heavy today, as it always was when he was relaxed…or intoxicated. "You deserve to be captain, Jim. They're giving you the best ship in the Fleet."

Jim looked at his friend. "You're coming with me."

It was a statement, not a request.

"Know anybody else who will put up with your bullshit?"

He smiled and looked around the room again, not knowing what to do.

"Come on," McCoy said. "Let's head over. You need to expend some of your energy. You're going to burst out of that uniform before you get your promotion."

They stepped outside and Jim could see that other cadets were already walking toward the assembly hall.

"Everyone is going to be there," he said aloud. "Everyone I upstaged, outsmarted and pissed off."

McCoy looked sideways at him as they stood in front of the dorm building. "Everyone you _saved_."

He looked at McCoy, expecting to see the familiar scowl and tight mouth, maybe a little sarcasm the doctor found so comforting. But instead he saw genuine admiration.

"What's it feel like to be captain?" McCoy asked.

He looked at the campus grounds, the red uniforms navigating away from him. The cadets were animated, their steps light. They would be graduating soon and on to their own assignments, some of them on Earth, some in space. They would be explorers and ambassadors and peacekeepers. He would be all of that and more.

He smiled. "Feels like coming home."

* * *

**A/N** – A special thanks to Carol, my soul sister, who shares my love of Star Trek…among other things. And to Alice, who stayed with this story and gave me great edits and insights (despite having writers block). Dear Alice, love your Bones who loves Jim.

This was a different piece for me, because Jim, Spock and Bones are so new to each other and still finding their way. I, also, am still finding my way with them.


End file.
